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SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


<-'  ^  0-v>v<c-b  C   .     X  OJ^C^ 


There's  the  clerk  wha  can  lak  a  bit  kiss  'hint  the  door, 
And  gladden  us  a'  wi'  his  sang  and  his  lore, 
The  honors  o'  sang,  o'  guid  auld  Scottish  sang. 
To  him  and  to  his  may  they  ever  belang. 

John  Craio/ord. 


IN   AMERICA, 


WITH 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES 


BY 


JOHN    D.    ROSS, 

Editor  of '■'■Celebrated  Songs  of  Scotland." 


NEW  YORK: 

PAGAN  &  ROSS,    PUBLISHERS, 

352    PEARL    STREET. 

1889 


J    J  J  >    >    J    J 
>    J  J  J    1     J  > 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  iSSS,  by 

PAGAN   &   ROSS, 
in  the  ofTice  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Wasliington. 


I'RESS  OP 

William    Pagan,  Jr., 

352  Ptarl  Street. 

NRW  VORK. 


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1 


TO 

I  The  Hon.  Chief  Justice,  David  McAdam, 

OF    NEW    YORK    CITY, 

tn  A  lover  of  Literature,  and  the  antlior  ol  various  works, 

O  THESE  ninr^K  SKF/r(MIKS  of  t^COTTlSII  POETS  TN  AMF.llTCA 

CO 

;sz  are  respectfully  and  with  permission 

rj 

"^  Dedicated. 


(TJ 


410789 


It  is  an  ungenerous  silence  which  leaves  all  the  fair  words  of  honestly- 
earned  praise  to  the  writer  of  obituary  notices  and  the  marble-worker. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


POETS  REPRESENTED  IN  THIS  WORK. 


Ainslio,  Hew,               ......  e^ 

Crcrar,  Duncan  MacGrcgor,         -             -             •             -  -       29 

Crichton,  James  D.    -             -             -             -             -             .  104 

Harper,  Dr.  John  M.        -             -             -             -             .  -       g8 

Henderson,  Daniel  Mclntyre,             -             -             .            .  g© 

Kennedy,  James,               -             -             -             -             .  -      3^^ 

Latto,  Thomas  C.       -----             -  q 

Lyle,  William,       •             -             -             -             -             -  -      68 

MacColl,  Evan,           ------  20 

McCallum,  Major-Gen.  Donald  Craig,     -             -             -  .     171 

M'Lachlan,  Alexander,            -             -             -             -             -  152 

McLean,  Andrew,             -             -             -             -             -  -      84 

Massie,  Dr.  John,        -             -             -             -             -             -  212 

Moffat,  Prof.  James  C.     -             -             -             -            -  -      47 

Murray,  William,        -             -             -             -             -             -  161 

Patterson,  John,  -             -             -             -             -             -  -     178 

Ramsay,  Donald,         ......  202 

Sturoc,  Hon.  William  Cant,          -             -             -             -  -       60 

Taylor,  Malcolm,  Jr.  -             -             -             -             -             -  144 

Telford,  William,               -             -             -             -             -  -     1S7 

Wanless,  Andrew,       -             -             -             -             -             -  125 

Whittct,  Robert,    -             -             -             -             -             -  -     no 

Wilson,  William,          -....-  77 

Wingficld,  Alexander,       -             -             -             -             -  -     136 

\Vood,  William  MacDunald,   -              -              -              -              -  117 


i 


SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


THOMAS    C.    LATTO. 

I  left  him  in  a  giccn  old  age 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn  but  still  steady, 
Amidst  the  elements,  while  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him. 

I  RECENTLY  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Thomas  C.  Latto,  the  distinguished 
author  of  many  of  the  most  humorous  Scottish  lyrics  of  the  present 
century.  The  shades  of  evening  were  silently  wrapi)ing  the  snow-clad 
world  in  darkness  as  I  entered  the  threshold  of  his  comfortable  home 
and,  with  a  feeling  more  of  veneration  than  gladness,  grasped  the  hand 
which  he  invitingly  extended  to  welcome  me.  My  visit  was  neces- 
sarily of  brief  duration,  but  it  shall  live  in  my  memory  and  be  cherished 
as  one  of  those  rare  events  only  met  with  at  long  intervals  in  the  jour- 
ney of  life.  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  stood  in  the  presence  of 
the  author  of  many  of  the  most  familiar  songs  of  my  boyhood;  songs 
which  had  charmed  and  delighted  me  with  their  exuberant  humor, 
and  which  now  intertwine  themselves  and  nestle  among  the  happiest 
recollections  of  my  early  years.  Nor  was  this  the  most  important 
feature  to  me,  in  connection  with  my  visit  to  the  talented  song-writer 
and  poet.  Here  was  one  who  had  mingled  with  many  of  the  illus- 
trious men  whose  very  names  I  had  revered  from  infancy,  and  whose 
works  had  been  a  beacon  of  enjoyment  and  delight  to  me  for  so  many 
long  years!  Men  who  had  made  themselves  famous  by  the  treasures 
they  had  added  to,  and  by  which  they  had  enriched,  the  general 
literature  of  Scotland,  and  then  laying  aside  their  pen,  had 
passed  from  the  world  and  joined  one  another  in  "the  land  of  the 
leal."  It  was  therefore  with  more  than  ordinary  interest  that  I  listened 
to  the  conversation  of  Mr.  Latto,  and  as  he  proceeded  and  recollec- 
tions of  by-gone  days  and  events  became  awakened  in  his  mind,  I 
could  notice  that  his  eyes  brightened  and  his  face  seemed  to  glow  with 
a  singular  pleasure.     He  certainly  had  a  wonderful  store  of  reminis- 


10  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

cences  and  anecdotes  of  men  and  books,  which  he  related  in  a  style 
peculiarly  his  own.  These  included  James  Hogg,  the  author  of  "  The 
Queen's  Wake;"  Professor  ^^'illiam  Edmonstoune  Aytoun,  author  of 
"  Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers  "  (to  whom  Mr.  Latto  acted  as  private 
secretary  for  four  years);  Allan  Cunningham,  the  editor  of  Burns's 
works;  Professor  John  Wilson  ("Christopher  North"),  of  Noctes 
Ambrosianae  fame;  James  Ballantine,  author  of  "Castles  in  the  Air;" 
Macaulay,  Talford,  Mrs.  Hemans,  Mrs.  S.  H.  Whitman,  "the  bright- 
est woman  of  New  England  "  and  the  well-known  defender  of  Edgar 
A.  Poe,  David  Macbeth  Moir  ("  Delta  "),  author  of  "  Mansie  Waugh;" 
Henry  Scott  Riddell,  author  of  "Scotland  Yet,"  besides  Charles  Gray, 
David  Vedder,  Robert  Gilfillan,  Hew  Ainslie,  Alexander  Smart,  Robert 
Nichol,  and  many  others  equally  famous,  all  of  whom  he  had  known 
and  with  whom  he  had  associated  or  corresponded.  Truly,  such  of 
his  reminiscences  as  he  imparted  to  me  were  of  an  interesting  and 
profitable  nature,  and  if  he  could  only  he  induced  to  publish  a  collec- 
tion of  them  in  book  form  the  literary  world  would  be  greatly  enriched 
thereby.  He  was,  in  early  life,  a  prominent  contributor  to  Whistle 
Binkie,  the  Ladies'  Own  Journal,  Blackie's  Book  of  Scottish  Song,  the 
Glasgow  Citizen,  Blackwood's  Magazine,  and  many  other  standard 
works  and  publications,  and  his  recollection  of  his  contemporaries  at 
this  date  would  undoubtedly  prove  not  only  interesting  but  valuable 
reading.  His  own  reputation  as  a  poet  had  already  been  established, 
and  his  poem  on  Sir  Walter  Scott,  which  appeared  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine  about  this  time,  drew  from  the  editor  of  that  ])ublication  the 
acknowledgment  that  "  Of  all  the  poetical  tributes  which  had  been  laid 
on  the  tomb  of  the  great  magician,  that  of  Latto  was  the  most  graceful 
and  the  most  original." 

Mr.  Latto  is  now  well  advanced  in  years.  He  was  born  at  Kings- 
barns,  Fifeshire,  on  the  first  of  December,  1818,  and  received  the  best 
l)art  of  his  education  at  St.  Andrew's  University.  He  was  noted 
among  his  schoolmates  as  being  of  a  very  reserved  and  retiring  dis- 
position, and  strange  to  say  these  traits  are  characteristic  of  him  even 
to  this  day.  While  his  name  and  his  wriiings  are  well  known  through- 
out the  United  States  and  Canada  very  few  Scotsmen  even  in  this  city 
are  aware  of  the  fact  that  their  gifted  countryman  has  resided  for  a 
number  of  years  in  a  pleasantly  situated  cottage  in  the  suburbs  of 
Brooklyn.  After  engaging  in  one  or  two  mercantile  pursuits,  both  in 
Edinburgh  and  Glasgow,  Mr.  Latto  decided  to  take  up  his  residence 


THOMAS  C.   LATTO.  ii 


in  this  (  ounlry.  He  arrived  here  in  1851,  and  since  then  has  supported 
himself  and  his  family  to  a  great  extent  by  his  untiring  literary  labors. 
In  the  midst  of  these  labors,  howe\cr,  tlic  nuise  has  been  his  constant 
and  fascinating  comijanion,  and  he  has  continued  to  contribute  to  the 
press  both  of  Great  Britain  and  America  many  sterling  gems  of  poetry 
and  song  on  a  variety  of  subjects.  His  most  jjopular  songs  are  his 
humorous  ones,  and  of  tlicse,  "Sly  Widow  Skinner,"  "When  we 
Were  at  the  Schule  "  and  "The  Kiss  Ahint  the  Door,"  are  i>robably 
the  most  widely  known.  They  have  been  sung  in  nearly  every  part 
of  tlic  world,  certainly  in  every  part  where  Scotsmen  have  found  a 
resting  place.  The  following  is  a  copy  of  "The  Kiss  Ahint  the  Door," 
with  an  additional  stanza  (the  fourth)  which  Mr.  Latto  has  added  to 
the  song  so  as  to  render  it  more  complete: 

There's  meikle  bliss  in  ae  fond  Iciss, 

Whyles  mair  than  in  a  score; 
Hut  wae  betak'  the  stowin  smack 

I  took  ahint  the  door. 

O  laddie,  whisht!  for  sic  a  fricht 

I  ne'er  was  in  afore; 
Fu'  brawl}-  did  my  mithcr  hear 

The  kiss  ahint  the  door. 
The  wa's  are  thick — ye  needna  fear; 

But,  gin  they  jeer  and  mock, 
I'll  swear  it  was  a  startit  cork, 

Or  wyte  the  rusty  lock. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  etc. 

We  stappit  ben,  while  Maggie's  face 

Was  like  a  lowin'  coal; 
An'  as  for  me,  I  could  ha'e  creept 

Into  a  mouse's  hole. 
The  mither  look't — safT's  how  she  look't — 

Thae  mithers  are  a  bore, 
An'  gleg  as  ony  cat  to  hear 

A  kiss  ahint  the  door. 

"Ehere's  meikle  bliss,  etc. 

Tlie  douce  gudeuian,  tho'  he  was  there, 

As  weel  micht  be  in  Rome, 
Fm  by  the  tire  he  fulled  his  pipe, 

An'  never  fasht  his  ihooni; 


12  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

But,  titterin'  in  a  corner,  stood 

The  gawky  sisters  four — 
A  winter's  nicht  for  me  the)'  micht 

Ha'e  stood  ahint  the  door. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  etc. 

Wee  Rab,  that  sneck-the-woodie  imp, 

Could  scarcely  hide  his  glee, 
As  owre  his  sclate  he  botched  an'  shook, 

Thrang  at  his  "  Rule  o'  Three." 
That  lang-drawn  whistle  that  he  wheept 

Was  herald  o'  mischance; 
lie  kent  the  music  was  begun 

An'  wha  was  gaun  to  dance. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  etc. 

"  How  daur  ye  tak' sic  freedoms  here?" 

The  bauld  gudewife  began; 
Wi'  that  a  foursome  yell  gat  up — 

I  to  my  heels  and  ran. 
A  besom  whiskit  by  my  lug, 

And  dishclouts  half  a  score; 
Catch  me  again,  tho'  fidgin'  fain, 

At  kissin'  'hint  the  door. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  etc. 

"The  Kiss"  was  made  the  subject  of  a  painting  by  an  eminent 
Scottish  artist,  and  exhibited  in  the  Royal  Academy  at  Edinburgh 
some  few  years  ago. 

"  When  we  were  at  the  Schule  "  originally  appeared  in  "  Blackie's 
Book  of  Scottish  Song,"  without  the  author's  name  being  attached  to 
it,  but  in  the  index  of  authors  it  is  properly  credited  to  him.  Some 
twenty  years  ago  an  article  appeared  in  the  New  York  Weekly  Dis- 
patch, claiming  that  the  song  was  written  by  a  John  Paterson,  whose 
widow  was  then  living  in  Grand  Street.  It  seems  that  this  party  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  singing  it  for  many  years  as  one  of  his  own  ])ro- 
ductions;  but  the  matter  having  been  brought  to  the  notice  of  Mr. 
Latto,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  proving  that  Paterson  was  laboring  under 
a  hallucination.  We  api)end  a  copy  of  this  celebrated  song,  of  which 
it  was  said  by  the  Rev.  George  Gilfillan  "  Every  line  is  a  memory.  In 
the  whole  compass  of  Scottish  lyrical  poetry  there  is  nothing  more 
graphic  or  delightful." 


THOMAS  C.   LATTO.  13 


WHEN    WE   WERE   AT   THE   SCHULE. 


The  laddies  plague  me  for  a  sang, 

I  e'en  maun  play  the  fule; 
I'll  sing  them  ane  aboot  the  days 

When  we  were  at  the  schule. 
TliDugh  noo  the  frosty  pow  is  seen, 

Whaur  ance  wav'd  gowden  hair. 
An'  mony  a  blytliesome  heart  is  cauld, 

Sin'  first  we  sported  there. 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  my  frien', 
When  we  were  at  the  schule; 

An'  O,  sae  merry  pranks  we  play'd, 
When  we  were  at  the  schule. 

Yet  muckle  Jock  is  to  the  fore, 

That  used  our  lugs  to  pu', 
An'  Rob,  the  pest,  an'  Sugar  Pouch, 

An'  canny  Davie  Dow. 
O  do  ye  mind  the  maister's  hat, 

Sae  auld,  sae  bare  an'  brown. 
We  carried  to  the  burnie's  side 

An'  sent  it  soomin'  down? 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  etc. 

We  thocht  how  clever  a'  was  plann'd, 

When,  wliatua  voice  was  that? 
A  head  is  raised  aboon  the  hedge, 

"  I'll  thank  ye  for  my  hat!" 
O  weel  I  mind  our  hingin'  lugs. 

Our  het  an'  tinglin'  paws, 
0  weul  I  iniiid  his  awfu'  look. 

An'  weel  I  mind  the  taws! 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  etc. 

O  do  ye  mind  at  countin'  time. 

How  watchfu'  lu'  has  lain. 
To  catcli  us  steal  frae  ithers'  slates 

An'  jot  it  on  our  ain? 
An  how  we  fear'd  at  writin'  hour, 

His  glunrhes  an'  his  glooms. 
How  mony  times  a  day  he  said. 

Our  fingers  a'  were  thooms? 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  etc. 


14  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  day  ye  stood, 

('Twas  manfu'  like,)  yoursel', 
An'  took  the  pawmies  an'  the  shame, 

To  save  wee  Johnnie  Bell; 
The  maister  fand  it  out  belj've, 

He  took  3-6  on  his  knee. 
An"  as  he  gaz'd  into  your  face, 

The  tear  was  in  his  e'e. 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  etc. 

But  mind  ye  lad,  yon  afternoon, 

How  fleet  ye  skipp'd  awa'. 
For  ye  had  crack't  auld  Jenny's  pane, 

When  playin'  at  the  ba'. 
Nae  pennies  had  we;  Jenny  grat; 

It  cut  us  to  the  core; 
Ye  took  ye're  mither's  hen  at  nicht 

An'  left  it  at  her  door. 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  etc. 

An'  sic  a  steer  his  granny  made, 

When  talepyet  Jamie  Rae 
We  dookit  roarin'  at  the  pump. 

Syne  row'd  him  down  the  brae. 
But  how  the  very  maister  leuch, 

When  leein  saddler  Wat 
Cam'  in  an'  threep't  that  cripple  Tam 

Had  chas'd  an'  kill'd  his  cat. 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  etc. 

Ah,  laddies,  ye  may  wink  awa', 

Truth  maunna  aye  be  tauld; 
I  fear  the  schules  o'  modern  days 

Are  just  sic  like's  the  auld. 
An'  are  na  we  but  laddies  yet, 

Wha'  get  the  name  o'  men? 
How  sweet  at  ane's  fireside  to  live 

Thae  happy  days  again; 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  my  frien', 
When  we  were  at  the  schule, 

An'  fling  the  snawba's  owcr  .ngain 
We  Hang  when  at  the  schule. 

Mr.  Latto's  pathetic  compositions  are  of  the  very  highest  order. 
They  contain  the  genuine  ring  of  llie  true  poet,  and  in  each  instance 
are  clothed  in  great  beauty  and  tenderness.     Here  is  one  which  was 


THOMAS  C.    LATTO.  15 


published  in  Blackie's  Book  of  Scottish  Song  as  far  back  as  1845. 
For  sweetness  and  sim])licity  it  is  eciiial  to  anything  of  its  kind  ever 
published,  and  if  we  mistake  not  it  is  one  of  the  author's  special 
favorites  : 

THE  BONNIE  BLIND  LASSIE  THAT  SITS  I"  THE  SUN. 


O  hark  to  the  strain  that  sac  sweetly  is  ringin', 

And  echoing  cleady  o'er  lake  and  o'er  lea, 
Like  some  fairy  bird  in  the  wilderness  singin", 

It  thrills  to  my  heart,  yet  nae  minstrel  I  sec, 
Round  yonder  rock,  knittin',  a  dear  ciiild  is  sillin', 

Sac  toilin'  her  pitifu'  pittance  is  won, 
Hersel'  tho'  we  see  nae,  'tis  mitherless  Jeanie — 

The  bonnie  blind  lassie  that  sits  i'  the  sun. 

Five  years  syne  come  autumn  she  cam'  wi'  her  mithcr, 

A  sodger's  puir  widow,  sair  wasted  an'  ganc: 
As  brown  fell  the  leaves,  sae  wi'  them  did  she  wither 

And  left  the  sweet  child  on  the  wide  woild  her  lane. 
She  left  Jeanie  wcepin',  in  His  holy  keepin' 

Wha  shelters  the  lamb  frae  the  cauld  wintry  win", 
We  had  little  siller,  yet  a'  were  gude  till  her. 

The  bonnie  blind  lassie  that  sits  i'  the  sun. 

An'  blythe  now  an'  chcerfu'  frae  mornin'  to  e'enin' 

She  sits  thro'  the  simmer,  an'  gladdens  ilk  ear, 
Baith  auld  and  young  daut  her,  sae  gentle  and  winnin', 

To  a'  the  folks  round,  the  wee  lassie  is  dear. 
Braw  leddies  caress  her,   wi'  bounties  would  press  her. 

The  modest  bit  darliii'  their  notice  would  shun, 
For  though  she  has  naething,  proud-hearted  this  wee  thing. 

The  bonnie  blind  lassie  that  sits  i'  the  sun. 

The  hue  l>r.  J<jlin  I'rown,  aiitlujr  of  "  Rah  and  His  Friends,"  once 
said,  "Among  the  song-birds  of  Scotland,  Latto  ha.i  a  true  note  of  his 
own,"  and  a  writer  in  llie  Caledonian  Mercury  concluded  a  criticism 
of  his  poems  by  saying:  "  Here  are  not  only  the  germs  of  true  poetry, 
but  the  bud,  the  blossom  and  the  very  flower  of  song,"  opinions  which 
every  true  lover  of  the  lyrical  muse  must  heartily  endorse.  The  fol- 
lowing song,  written  a  few'  months  ago,  will  prove  that  Mr.  Latto  has 
lost  none  of  his  ])oelical  fervor  even  at  this  date.  The  title  is  the 
familiar  proverb — 


i6  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


"WE  NEVER  MISS  THE  WATER  TILL  THE  WELL  RINS  DRY." 


Be  lookin'  out  for  fell  auld  age  in  sunn}-  days  o'  3'outh; 

Keep  rain  draps  that  36  dinna  need  ere  comes  the  autumn  drouth; 

Let  aye  some  pennies  ye  can  spare  be  cannily  laid  by; 

"We  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  rins  dry." 

The  wee  bit  stockin'  fittie,  that  has  its  private  neuk, 
Comes  just  as  handy  in  the  end  as  weel-lined  pocket  beuk; 
Tak'  tent  an'  no  be  wasterfu',  the  winter's  drawing  nigh; 
"  We  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  rins  dry." 

But  be  na  mean  an'  greedy,  I  canna  thole  the  coof, 
Wha  sees  the  beggar  at  his  door  an'  doubles  up  his  loof; 
O  dinna  let  him  gang  his  wa's  wi'  muttcr'd  bitter  cry: 
"  We  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  rins  dry." 

There's  plenty  gude  within  this  warld  fu'  quietl}'  to  be  done, 
Wark  needfu'  to  be  hurried  through  an'  mair  to  be  begun; 
But  charity  maun  hae  the  means  nor  pity  lack  supply; 
"  We  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  rins  dry." 

There's  just  ae  water  I  wad  hint  that  ne'er  shortcoming  knows; 
The  mair  ye  quaff' o't,  aye  the  mair  your  pitcher  overflows — 
Tiie  water  o'  the  well  o'  life;  come,  drink  your  fill  an'  Uy\ 
Its  brim  is  gurgling  ever  bright;  its  fount  is  never  dry. 

Few  poets  have  written  so  many  noble  and  meritorious  sonnets  as 
Mr.  Latto  has  dene,  and  scarcely  a  day  passes  without  his  adding  one 
or  more  of  these  to  his  already  large  collection.  We  quote  three  of 
his  latest  inspirations  in  this  respect: 

ALLAN    RAMSAY. 


Not  all  the  poets  dree'd  a  wretched  lot; 
Among  them  there  is  one  that  I  can  name, 
Whose  happiness  was  equal  to  his  fame — 

Just  "  Honest  Allan,"  the  illustrious  Scot. 

Genial  old  man!  his  cliicfest  glory  is, 
Before  declining  in  the  vale  of  years 
He  stood  wiihout  a  rival  'mong  his  peers; 

"One  Half  of  Round  Eternity"  was  his; 

"  Lochaber"  and  the  "  Lass  o'  I'alie's  Mill," 

The  "Gentle  Shepherd"  and  his  "Peggy"  sweet 
Can  yet  all  Scottish  hcaits  with  rapture  fill. 

Still  do  our  milkmaids  his  blythc  strains  repeat; 
Good  cause  had  he  for  his  complacent  smiles — 
His  country's  choice  as  Laureate  of  llie  Isles. 


THOMAS  C.   LATTO.  17 


ROHERT    FERGUSSON. 


Poor  ill-starr'd  Roljcrt!  I  have  grieved  for  ilicc, 
Kind,  joyous,  fired  witli  genius'  generous  glow, 
And,  save  tlie  jjcndulum  too  fast  would  go — 

Eiuljodinient  of  inirtli's  wild  witcliery; 

From  Ramsay's  lays  oft  snatcliing  inspiration, 
Indeed,  improving  upon  lionest  Allan, 
He  kytlied  \\\U)  the  daintiest  "  rhyming  callan'," 

Helping  e'en  Hums  to  his  immortal  station. 

The  "  Daft  Days"  will  receive  the  meed  of  praise, 
Until  the  "  Holy  Fair"  with  age  grows  dim; 

The  "  Farmer's  Ingle"  shed  its  cheery  blaze, 

While  Robin's  "  Cottars  "  chant  their  evening  hymn; 

High  Priest  of  Nature!  nobler  was  the  tone 

Caught  up  by  thee  from  lowly  Fergusson. 

ROHERT   BURNS. 


Dying  at  thirty-eight,  two  feverish  years 
He  snatched,  in  which  to  pour  those  deathless  lays 
That  'tis  in  vain  to  emulate  or  praise, 

So  surely  have  they  distanced  all  compeers; 

It  is  a  marvel,  did  wc  but  reflect 

How  many  cultured  failures  struck  the  lyre, 
Till  at  one  swoop  his  mountain-muse  of  fire 

Hailed  him  as  God's  anointed — sole  elect. 

And  now  where  is  the  man,  save  he  alone, 
With  immortality's  bright  singing  robe; 

Whose  songs  are  sung  to  earth's  remotest  zone — 
Whose  birthday  is  a  joy  throughout  the  globe  ? 

A  simple  ploughman  from  the  braes  of  Ayr 

Enjoys  a  triumph  that  no  king  can  share. 

Recently  Mr.  LiUto  has  taken  a  special  liking  to  making  transla- 
tions from  tlie  Danish,  Swedish  and  Icelandic  poets,  and  such  of 
these  translations  as  he  has  given  to  the  press  have  been  very  favor- 
ably commented  ui)on.  As  one  writer  remarks,  "  They  are  marked 
by  the  same  vigor  of  execution,  felicitous  grace  of  diction  and  genial 
human  sympathy  that  early  won  for  him  the  place  he  holds  among 
modern  Scottish  poets."  It  is  only  a  few  years  since  he  mastered  the 
Scandinavian  langua^es,  and  on  this  account  is  entitled  to  more  than 
the  usual  amount  of  credit  for  his  labors  in  this  direction.  Here  is 
one  of  his  latest  translations: 


SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


THE    NATIVITY. 

\_Frovi  the  Danish  0/  Oeienscklager.'] 

Each  spring,  when  mists  float  o'er  the  plain, 
The  infant  Jesus  is  born  again; 
Angels  in  river,  in  grove  and  in  air, 
Look  for  the  Saviour;  he  is  there. 
Nature,  as  silent  the  blossoms  ope, 
Bedecks  herself  in  the  green  of  hope. 

Before  the  innocent  shepherds'  sight, 
Who  look  to  the  sky  in  the  Syrian  night, 
God's  angels  take  thro'  the  fields  their  way: 
They  hover  and  glide  in  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Singing,  "  To-day  is  born  the  child 
Of  Spring — of  Mary,  the  meek  and  mild. 

The  drink  he  quaffs  is  of  purest  dew; 
That  tender  smile  to  the  godhead  flew; 
To  heaven  he  stretches  his  childish  hands 
And  the  earth  is  wreathed  as  with  rosy  bands; 
His  prattle  the  zephyr,  his  cradle  the  straw. 
His  eyes  the  bluest  earth  ever  saw. 

To  Bethlehem  !  ye  herds  of  the  green  hillside. 
That  your  souls  maybe  soften'd  and  sanctified: 
Awhile  from  j-our  cares  and  toils  withdraw 
To  look  on  the  child  in  the  lowly  straw, 
That  so  his  holy  smile  this  day 
May  raise  your  hearts  from  earth  away." 

Up  swept  the  seraphs  like  meteor  tlamc, 
But  the  shepherds  held  onward  to  Bethlehem, 
And  lo  !  what  a  marvelous  change  is  wrought. 
On  hearts  with  troublous  doublings  fraught, 
For  they  turn  again  from  the  pasture  sod, 
Kneel  down  to  the  child  and  believe  in  God. 

And  The  star  darts  light  from  the  azure  dome. 
To  point  to  the  King  of  the  Orient's  home; 
Bright  rays  of  glory  stream  from  the  choir, 
And  the  shepherds  sink  humbly,  then  back  retire 
Blessing  the  Saviour's  holy  face 
That  smiles  in  his  mother's  fond  embrace. 
And  still  there  rise  from  the  grim  black  mould 
Redekmkrs  in  purple,  and  velvet  and  gold, 
Half  of  the  meadowland,  half  of  the  air. 
Babes  of  the  wilderness,  fragile  and  fair, 
Their  chalices  charged  with  a  ra])lure  intense — 
The  fragrance  of  myrrh  and  of  frankincense. 


THOMAS  C.  LATTO. 


19 


Mr.  Latto  is  a  man  with  a  large  and  Christian  heart,  a  benevolent 
nature,  a  sound  judgment  and  a  taste  for  literature  and  all  that  is 
good  and  beautiful.  Added  to  these  cjualities  he  is  greatly  esteemed 
by  those  who  know  him  personally  as  a  genial  comjjanion,  a  cultured 
scholar,  and  a  friend  to  whom  they  can  point  with  pride.  He  posses- 
ses one  of  the  finest  jjrivate  libraries  in  Brooklyn,  a  library  that  is 
filled  with  rare  and  curious  literary  treasures,  and  over  the  door  of 
which  might  be  truly  inscribed,  "A  Paradise  for  Book-worms."  May 
he  live  for  m;iny  years  in  tlic  full  enjoyment  of  the  gifts  which  nature 
has  bestowed  on  him,  and  the  well-deserved  reputation  which  his 
works  have  gained  for  him. 


EVAN    MacCOLL. 

Age  sits  with  decent  grace  upon  his  visage 
And  worthily  becomes  his  silver  locks; 
He  wears  the  marks  of  many  years  well  spent, 
Of  virtue,  truth  well  tried  and  wise  experience. 

Evan  MacColl,  a  poet  who,  for  more  than  half  a  century,  has 
charmed  the  lovers  of  Gaelic  poetry  throughout  the  world,  has  now 
reached  the  venerable  age  of  eighty  years.  He  was  born  on  Septem- 
ber 21,  1808,  at  Kenmore,  Lochfyne-side,  Argyleshire,  and  was  the 
youngest  but  one  of  a  family  of  six  sons  and  two  daughters.  His 
father  was  a  man  of  many  excellent  qualities  and  of  considerable 
learning,  but  he  was  especially  noted  among  his  neighbors  for  his  rich 
store  of  Celtic  song.  His  mother,  a  descendant  from  the  Camerons 
of  Cowall,  was  well  versed  in  the  legendary  and  fairy  lore  pertaining 
to  the  Highlands.  She  was  a  charitable  and  kindly-disposed  woman, 
and  she  infused  a  moral  and  religious  influence  into  the  hearts  and 
thoughts  of  her  children  which  has  never  departed.  The  MacColl 
family,  although  thrifty  and  industrious,  was  by  no  means  a  rich  one, 
and  Evan  began  at  an  early  age  and  continued  for  many  years  after- 
ward to  lend  assistance  in  the  labors  connected  with  farming  and 
fishing.     At  odd  times  he  attended  school. 

These,  however,  must  have  been  happy  and  memorable  years  to  our 
author,  as  amidst  their  toils  and  hardships  many  of  his  most  celebrated 
Gaelic  lyrics  were  composed.  Mr.  John  Mackenzie,  in  his  "Beauties 
of  Gaelic  Poetry  and  lives  of  the  Gaelic  Bards,"  informs  us  that  "  at  a 
very  early  age  he  displayed  an  irresistible  thirst  for  legendary  lore  and 
Gaelic  poetry,  but,  from  the  seclusion  of  his  native  glen,  and  other 
disadvantageous  circumstances,  he  had  but  scanty  means  for  fanning 
the  latent  flame  that  lay  dormant  in  his  breast.  He,  however,  greedily 
devoured  every  volume  he  could  procure  and  when  the  labors  of  the 
day  were  over  would  often  resort  to  some  favorite  haunt  where,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  that  solitude  which  his  father's  fireside  denied  him,  he 
might  be  found  taking  advantage  of  the  very  moonlight  to  pore  over 


EVAN  MAC  COLL.  21 


the  minstrelsy  of  liis  native  country  until  lassitude  or  the  lunir  of  re- 
pose compelled  him  to  return  limiu-."  I'.y  the  time  he  had  reached  his 
twenty-third  year  his  wonderful  Gaelic  productions  had  made  his  name 
famous  throughout  Scotland  and  in  many  parts  of  England. 

In  1S31  his  father,  with  the  unmarried  members  of  the  family,  emi- 
grated to  Canada.  Evan,  however,  could  not  be  induced  to  accompany 
them.  In  1836  he  published  his  first  volume,  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Mountain  Minstrel."  It  contained  ])oems  and  songs,  both  in  Gaelic 
and  Englisli,  and  was  warmly  received  \)\  the  ]iul)lic  and  the  jiress. 
In  1838  appeared  his  "  Clarsach  nam  Beann  "  and  a  second  edition  of 
his  first  work,  which  was  followed  by  a  third  edition  in  18^19  In  1H39 
he  was  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  customs  at  Li\eri)ool.  Ten 
years  later  he  obtained  a  six  months'  leave  of  absence  to  enable  him 
to  visit  his  friends  in  Canada  and  recuperate  his  health,  and  while 
there  was  induced  to  exchange  his  position  at  Liverpool  for  a  more 
remunerative  one  in  the  provincial  customs  of  Upper  Canada.  He 
settled  in  Kingston  in  1850  and  remained  at  his  post  until  he  was 
superannuated  in  1886.  His  muse  has  been  exceedingly  fruitful  dur- 
ing-his  long  residence  in  Canada,  and  we  are  not  sur])rised  that  many 
of  his  productions  have  been  inspired  by  the  recollection  of  the  scenes 
and  incidents  connected  with  his  boyhood's  home.  Here  is  one  of 
his  best  known  lyrical  pieces  on  this  subject: 

THE  HILLS  OF  THE  HEATHER. 


Give  the  swains  of  Italia  'mong  myrtles  to  rove, 

Give  the  proud,  sullen  Spaniard  his  bright  orange  grove, 

Give  gold-sanded  streams  to  the  sons  of  Chili, 

Hut,  O,  give  the  hills  of  the  heather  t<j  me  ! 

Then,  drink  we  a  health  to  the  old  Highland  Bens, 

Whose  heads  cleave  the  welkin,  whose  feet  press  the  glens; 

What  Scot  worth  the  name  would  not  toast  them  with  glee? 

The  red  heather  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  nie  ! 

The  hills  whose  wild  echoes  delight  to  prolong 

The  soul-stirring  pibroch,  the  streams'  gushing  song. 

Storm-vexed  and  mist-mantled  though  often  they  be, 

Still  dear  are  the  hills  of  heather  to  me. 

Then,  drink  we  a  health  to  the  old  Highland  Bens, 

That  fondly  look  down  on  the  clan-peopled  glens; 

Whit  Scot  worth  the  name  would  not  toast  them  with  glee? 

The  red  heather  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  me  I 


22  SCOTTISH  POETS  W  AMERICA. 

Your  carses  may  boast  of  their  own  fertile  farms, 

Yet  give  me  the  glens  shielding  well  in  their  arms 

Blue  lakes  grandly  glassing  crag,  cliff,  tower  and  tree — 

The  red  heather  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  me  ! 

Then  drink  we  a  health  to  the  old  Highlands  Bens, 

Their  deer-haunted  corries  and  hazel-wood  dens; 

What  Scot  worth  the  name  would  not  toast  them  with  glee? 

The  red  heather  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  me  ! 

'Tis  there  'neath  the  tartan  beat  hearts  the  most  leal — 
Hearts  warm  as  the  sunshine,  yet  firm  as  the  steel; 
There  only  this  heart  can  feel  happy  or  free; 
The  red  heather  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  me  ! 
Then,  drink  we  a  health  to  the  old  Highland  Bens; 
Glad  leaving  to  England  her  flats  and  her  fens; 
What  Scot  worth  the  name  would  not  toast  them  with  glee? 
The  red  heather  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  me  ! 

Numerous  other  notable  quotations  might  be  made  from  our  author's 
works,  touching  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  or  showing  the  genuine 
warmth  of  his  love  for  the  fatherland.  They  are  grand  and  impres- 
sive at  all  times,  and  seldom  fail  to  awaken  pleasant  memories  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader.  How  grand  and  realistic  for  instance  is  his  de- 
scription of  the  river  Beauly  as  it  surges  from  the  Highlands  down  to 
the  Lowlands: 

'Tis  grand  thy  crystal  flood  to  view 

Benvaichard's  borders  leaving, 
Nor  less  to  see  the  Strath  below 
Thy  fuller  tfow  receiving; 
But  grander  far 
To  see  thee  where 
Its  narrowing  bounds  thou'rt  cleaving 
Through  rocky  ridges  opening  wide 
In  very  terror  of  thy  tide. 

Now  through  the  Druim's  dark  gorges  deep 
\  Methinks  I  see  thee  going. 

Half  hid  'mid  woods  that  love  to  keep 
Fond  watch  upon  thy  llowing; 
From  rock  to  rock, 
With  flash  and  shock, 
And  fury  ever  growing — 
A  giant  fettered,  it  is  true. 
Yet  bound  all  barriers  to  subdue. 


EVAN   MAC  COLL.  23 


The  patriotism  with  which  MacCoU  is  imbued,  however,  is  some- 
thing altogether  apart  from  liis  love  for  Scotland.  The  land  wherein 
reposes  tlic  dust  of  his  ancestors  is  the  most  sacred  portion  of  the 
globe  to  him,  and  he  stands  ever  ready,  both  with  ])en  and  voice,  to 
u])hold  its  dignity  and  honor.  A  good  illustration  of  this  spirit  may 
be  found  in  the  reply  which  he  sent  one  morning  to  a  certain  professor 
who  had,  in  a  ])ublic  sjjcech  delivered  the  previous  evening,  ventured 
the  assertion  that  "Scotchmen  must  admit  their  country  to  liave  been 
once  conciuered:  ' 

Scotland,  a  conquered  land  !     Learned  sage, 
Pray  tell  us  how,  and  in  what  age? 
Not  so  read  /historic  page. 

Thou  canst  not  deem  a  mere  invasion — 
A  brief  disputed  occupation — 
To  be  the  conquest  of  a  nation? 

Think'st  thou  the  homage  of  a  knave 
Binding  on  those  he  would  enslave? 
Let  Baliol  answer  from  his  grave  ! 

Scotland  a  conquered  land  !    Ho,  ho  I 
Proud  Edward  found  it  was  not  so 
When  dying — vainly  still  her  foe. 

No  pandering,  then,  to  Saxon  pride  ! 
Pretensions  b}-  our  sires  defied 
Shall  we  not  also  cast  aside  ? 

Forgct'st  thou  Carun's  crimsoned  stream? 
Is  Bannockburn  a  myth  or  dream  ? 

And  Wallace  a  mere  minstrel  theme? 

Thou  spcak'st  of  Cromwell  ?    Be  it  so; 
Cromwell  was  never  Scotland's  foe — 
How  then  her  conqueror,  prithee,  show? 

Her  friend  and  freedom's,  north  he  came; 
Her  noblest  sons  backed  well  his  aim, 
And  scotched  misrule  in  Cromwell's  name. 

Hold  up  thy  head,  then,  Scotia  !    When 

Thy  sons  forget  that  they  are  men 

Thou  may'st  be  conquered — not  till  then  ! 

MacCoU's  language  is  poetic  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  His  poetry 
is  a  realm  of  fascinating,  intellectual  beauties,  always  bright,  and  jnire, 
and  original.     Few,  indeed,  are  the  poems  which  he  has  written  that 


24  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

are  not  studded  with  rare  and  striking  metaphors,  thus  showing  with 
what  a  luxuriant,  poetic  imagination  he  is  endowed.  We  listen  in 
wonderment  while  his  muse  joins  in  the  joyous  carol  of  the  lark,  or 
hovers  over  the  roaring  cataract,  the  mighty  woods,  the  shady  glens, 
and  the  heather-clad  hills  of  his  native  land.  We  watch  him  as  he 
traces  with  his  magic  pen  the  scenes  and  incidents  of  his  early  life,  and 
they  become  familiar  and  endeared  to  us.  He  conjures  up  the  legends 
and  romances  which  cling  like  the  ivy  to  the  battlements  and  crumb- 
ling walls  of  the  once  famous  castles  and  strongholds  of  the  Highlands, 
and  the  grandeur  and  glory — the  victories  and  defeats — the  supersti- 
tions and  crimes  of  a  by-gone  age  become  vividly  portrayed  and  re- 
called to  our  minds.  He  casts  his  spell,  like  Burns,  over  many  of  the 
commonest  objects  of  every-day  life,  and  they  assume  a  new  beauty 
and  importance.  He  pictures  to  us  the  various  beauties  of  nature, 
shows  us  the  brighter  side  of  life,  sings  to  us  of  mirth,  love,  patriotism, 
duty,  humanity  and  piety,  and  as  we  wander  among  his  poetical  pro- 
ductions we  are  made  to  realize  that  we  are  for  the  time  being  com- 
muning with  the  innermost  thoughts  of  one  who  is  a  true  poet.  The 
following  is  a  translation  by  the  late  Lachlan  MacLean  (Glasgow)  of 
one  of  his  most  renowned  poems: 

THE  CHILD  OF   PROMISE. 


Thy  life  was  like  a  morning  cloud, 

Of  rosy  hue  at  break  of  day; 
The  envious  sun  appears,  and  soon 

The  rival  glory  molts  awa}-. 

Thy  life  was  like  May's  sunny  beams 

By  shadows  brushed  o'er  field  and  flower; 

Or  like  the  bow  of  heaven  that  sheds 
Its  glory  in  a  fleeting  shower. 

Thy  life  was  like  new-fallen  snow, 
Gracing  some  sea-beach  lately  bared; 

The  tide  returns  with  heedless  flow — 
The  sky-born  guest  hath  disappeared. 

Thy  life  was  like  some  tuneful  harp 

Abruptly  stopped  when  sweetest  strung; 

Or  like  "the  talc  of  other  years" 
To  expectation  half  unsung. 


EVAN  MAC  COLL.  25 


Tliy  life  was  like  a  passing  gleam 

Of  moonlight  on  ihc  troubled  main, 
Or  like  some  blissful  dream  which  he 

Who  dreams,  may  never  dream  again. 

O  child  of  promise  bright  !  although 

'Twere  wrong  to  grudge  to  heaven  its  own, 

Our  tears,  withal,  will  often  flow 

To  think  thy  sun  so  soon  gone  down. 

Our  author  reveals  to  us  his  intimacy  with  nature  through  many  of 
h:s  finest  poems.  Embodied  in  liis  "  May  Morning  in  Glen-Shira," 
for  instance,  we  ha\e  the  following  delightful  description  of  the  month 
of  May: 

O  May  !  thou'rt  an  enchantress  rare — 
Thy  presence  maketh  all  things  fair; 
Thou  wavest  but  thy  wand,  and  joy  is  everywhere. 

Thou  coniest  and  the  clouds  are  not — 
Rude  Boreas  has  his  wrath  forgot. 
The  gossamer  again  is  in  the  air  afloat. 

The  foaming  torrent  from  the  hill — 
Thou  changest  to  a  gentle  rill 
A  thread  of  liquid  pearl,  that  faintly  murmurs  still. 

Thine  is  the  blossom-laden  tree. 
The  meads  that  white  with  lambkins  be, 
Thine,  too,  the  netherworld  that  in  each  lake  we  sec. 

Cheer'd  by  thy  smile,  the  herd-boy  gay 
Oft  sings  the  rock-repeated  lay, 
And  wonders  who  can  be  the  mocker  in  his  way. 

Thou  givest  fragance  to  the  breeze, 
A  gleaming  glory  to  the  seas. 
Nor  less  thy  grace  is  seen  in  yonder  emerald  leas. 

Many  valuable  testimonials  of  esteem  and  respect  have  been  tendered 
to  Mr.  MacColl  during  his  lifetime,  one  in  particular  taking  the  form 
of  a  very  fine  portrait  of  himself,  presented  by  his  townsmen.  The 
noblest  one,  however,  and  the  one  which  will  outlast  all  the  others,  is 
a  ])oem  by  his  friend,  Mr.  Duncan  MacGregor  Crerar,  a  gentleman 
known  among  his  countrymen  as  the  Breadalbane  Bard,  on  account  of 


26  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

the  many  beautiful  poems  which  he  has  written  on  the  classical  and 
historical  scenes  of  his  native  Perthshire.  The  poem  was  first  pub- 
lished in  the  Celtic  Magazine,  Inverness,  Scotland,  and  has  since  been 
characterized  as  "a  tribute  to  the  genius  of  the  poet  which  reflects 
equal  lustre  on  the  subject  and  the  singer."  We  quote  it  here  as  we 
feel  confident  that  it  will  always  be  mentioned  in  connection  with 
MacColl's  poems: 

TO   EVAN    MacCOLL. 


My  greeting  to  thee,  Bard  revered, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  Loch  Fj-ne  ! 
Heaven  bless,  and  shield,  and  prosper  aye, 

Mo  charaid  !  thee  and  thine. 
May  time  deal  ever  tenderly, 

MacColl,  with  thine  and  thee  ! 
Long  may  thy  tuneful  Highland  harp 

Throb  sweetest  minstrels)-. 

The  sterling  virtues  of  the  Gael, 

Their  deeds  of  bravery, 
Their  guileless  hearts  so  warm  and  true, 

Who  can  portray  like  thee  ? 
And  sweetly  dost  thou  sing  the  charms. 

The  gracefulness  divine, 
Of  Highland  maids,  in  speech  endeared — 

Thy  mother  tongue  and  mine. 

"  lona  "  "  Staflfa,"  and  "  Loch  Awe," 

"  Loch  Lomond  "  and  "  Loch  Fyne," 
The  "Brandcr  Pass"  and  "  Urquhart's  Glen," 

Thou  grandly  doth  outline. 
Thy  "  Child  of  Promise,"  beauteous  gem, 

A  plaintive,  soothing  psalm; 
Thy  "  Falling  Snow"  brings  to  the  heart 

A  sweet,  a  holy  calm. 

Thine  own  "  Glenshira,"  by  thy  Muse, 

Is  now  a  classic  land: 
Its  scenes  of  grandeur  have  been  limned 

With  skill  by  Royal  iiand. 
O  bless  her,  princess  of  our  race  ! 

That  rose  without  a  thorn. 
So  dearly  cherisiied  in  our  hearts, 

Tlie  loved  Louise  of  Lome. 


EVAN  Af AC  COLL.  27 


Tliinc  odes,  thy  sonnets,  and  thy  songs 

All  rich  in  mtlodie, 
Shall  with  delight  be  read  and  sung 

While  Awe  flows  to  the  sea. 

0  Hard  beloved  !  in  boyhood's  morn 
I  sang  thy  mountain  lays: 

With  joy  perused  tliy  poesie 
'Mong  famed  Breadalbane's  braes. 

1  dreamed  not  then  the  rich  delight 
My  future  had  in  store — 

Thy  noble  friendship,  treasured  dear, 

Within  alTection's  core. 
The  liappy  cii/idhs  to  thy  home. 

The  charming  converse  there; 
Thy  Highland  hospitality. 

How  cordial,  and  Ikjw  rare  ! 

Though  fair  Canadia,  now  thy  home, 

Be  full  of  charms  to  thee; 
Thy  heart  oft  yearns  to  see  Arg3'll, 

And  thine  own  "  Rowan  Tree." 
My  wishes  warm  to  tlue  I  waft, 

Charmed  songster  of  Loch  Fyne; 
And  oh,  may  heaven's  blessings  rest, 

My  friend  on  thee  and  thine  ! 

We  cannot  conclude  our  sketch  of  this  eminent  poet  in  a  more 
appropriate  manner  than  by  repeating  the  words  of  his  friend  and 
biograplier,  Mr.  Charles  Sangster. 

"Mr.  MacColl,"  he  writes  in  1873,  "is  considerably  past  the  middle 
of  life,  but  bids  fair  to  weather  the  storm  of  existence  for  many  years 
to  come.  In  private  life  he  is,  both  by  precept  and  example,  all  that 
could  be  desired.  He  has  an  intense  love  for  all  that  is  really  good 
and  beautiful,  and  a  true  and  manly  scorn  for  all  that  is  false,  time- 
serving and  hypocritical;  there  is  no  narrow-mindedness,  no  bigotry 
in  his  soul.  Kind  and  generous  to  a  fault,  he  is  more  than  esteemed, 
and  that  deservedly,  by  all  who  properly  know  him.  In  the  domestic 
circle,  all  the  warmth  in  the  man's  heart — the  full  glow  of  genuine 
feeling  and  affection — is  ever  uppermost.  He  is  a  thoroughly  earnest 
man,  in  whose  daily  walk  and  conversation,  as  well  as  in  his  actions, 
Longfellow's  '  Psalm  of  Life  '  is  acted  out  in  verity.  In  his  friend- 
ships, he  is  sincere;    in    his  dislikes,  equally  so.     He  is  thoroughly 


28  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Scottish  in  his  leanings,  his  national  love  burns  with  intensity.  In 
poetry  he  is  not  merely  zealous,  but  enthusiastic,  and  he  carries  his 
natural  force  of  character  in  all  he  says  and  does.  Consequently  he 
is  not  simply  a  wooer,  but  a  worshiper  of  the  muse.  Long  may  he 
live,  the  *  Bard  of  Lochfyne,'  to  prostrate  his  entire  heart  and  soul  in 
the  Temple  of  the  Nine." 

An  English  edition  of  MacCoU's  poetical  works  was  published  by 
Messrs.  Hunter,  Rose  &  Co.,  Toronto,  in  1883.  Attached  to  this 
volume  is  an  excellent  biographical  essay  by  the  editor  of  the  Celtic 
Magazine,  Alexander  Mackenzie,  F.  S.  A.  To  the  latter  we  beg  to 
acknowledge  our  indebtedness  for  much  of  the  information  herein 
stated  in  connection  with  the  life  of  our  author.  A  new  edition  of  his 
poems  with  a  number  of  additional  pieces  has  just  been  published, 
and  to  this  we  would  kindly  refer  such  of  our  readers  as  may  desire  to 
become  better  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  the  gifted  Eoghan 
MacColla. 


DUNCAN  MacGREGOR  CRERAR. 

Whoe'er  amidst  the  sons 
Of  reason,  valor,  liberty  and  virtue 
Displays  distinguished  merit,  is  a  noble 
Of  nature's  own  creating. 

Scotland  is  proud,  and  justly  so,  of  the  many  eminent  men  of 
letters  which  she  has  given  to  the  world.  Since  the  year  1375,  when 
John  Barbour  produced  his  great  historical  poem,  "The  Bruce,"  down 
to  the  present  time,  her  history  is  replete  and  sparkles  with  the  illus- 
trious names  ot  her  many  talented  sons  who  have  won  both  honor  and 
renown  through  their  literary  abilities.  Nor  has  it  been  in  one  par- 
ticular branch  that  these  gifted  individuals  have  labored  so  earnestly, 
and  thus  gained  for  Scotland  a  pre-eminence  in  literature  second  to 
no  other  nation.  All  branches  have  been  represented  and  enriched 
by  the  magical  touch  of  their  pens,  from  the  quaint  and  primitive 
looking  almanac  of  by-gone  days  to  the  large  and  wonderful  encyclo- 
pedias of  modern  times.  But  it  is  certainly  through  their  contribu- 
tions to  the  poetical  literature  of  their  country  that  the  greatest  number 
of  Scotsmen  have  acquired  an  enviable  and  well  merited  reputation, 
and  as  the  names  of  the  various  Scottish  poets  and  their  works  are 
familiar  to  all  of  our  readers,  we  siiall  not  occupy  unnecessary  space 
by  quoting  or  referring  to  them  at  any  length  here.  The  traditions 
and  history,  the  scenery  and  associations  of  Scotland,  are  all  favorable 
to  the  cultivation  of  the  muse,  and  as  is  well  known  many  of  the  finest 
gems  of  poetry  and  song  in  our  language  have  emanated  from  the 
Bards  of  that  country.  Many  of  these  Bards  from  time  to  time  have 
strayed  from  their  native  hills  and  glens  and  settled  down  in  the  new 
world.  Among  others  Mr.  Duncan  MacGregor  Crerar,  the  honorable 
Secretary  of  the  liurns  Society  of  this  city,  is  worthy  of  special  atten- 
tion. Mr.  Crerar  is  a  poet  of  acknowledged  ability  and  of  wide  repu- 
tation. In  Scottish  circles  he  is  always  referred  to  as  "The  Breadal- 
bane  Bard."  His  style  is  marked  by  earnestness  of  moral  purpose  and 
a  purity  of  diction  which  sometimes  rises  into  religious  fervor,  and 


30  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

often  takes  the  form  of  embalming  in  verse  the  virtues  and  talents  of 
his  fellow  men  whose  characteristics  have  won  his  esteem,  or  who  by 
moral  or  intellectual  superiority  have  gained  his  friendship.  In  the 
latter  quality  the  numerous  sonnets  which  he  has  produced  of  an 
elegiac  or  complimentary  nature,  each  of  them  a  gem  in  itself,  might 
furnish  a  volume,  and  we  feel  assured  that  the  publication  of  these 
melodious  embodiments  of  thought  would  place  Mr.  Crerar  as  an 
acknowledged  superior  to  any  living  poet  in  America  in  this  depart- 
ment of  literature.  Although  Mr.  Crerar  has  been  many  years  in 
America,  and  is  thoroughly  cosmopolitan  in  his  habits  of  thought  and 
modes  of  expression,  his  muse  ever  looks  back  lovingly  to  the  father- 
land. The  home  of  his  youth  has  become  sanctified  by  separation, 
and  the  majestic  scenery  of  his  native  Perthshire  rises  before  his  im- 
agination in  all  the  vividness  of  its  reality.  The  purple  glory  of  the 
heather-clad  hills,  the  flash  of  loch  and  stream,  the  warble  of  the  wild 
birds,  the  bloom  of  dewy  flowers,  seem  to  pass  in  a  ceaseless  panorama 
before  him.  The  associations  of  youth  have  thus  furnished  the  theme 
of  some  of  his  sweetest  lyrics,  as  for  instance  in  his 

CALEDONIA'S  BLUE  BELLS. 


Hail,  bonnie  Blue  Bells  !  ye  come  hither  to  me 
With  a  brother's  warm  love  from  far  o'er  the  sea; 
Fair  llowerets  I  ye  grew  on  a  calm,  sacred  spot — 
The  ruins  alas  !  of  ni}'  kind  father's  cot, 

Caledonia's  Blue  Bells,  O  bonnie  Blue  Bells  ! 

What  memories  dear  of  that  cot  ye  recall, 
Though  now  there  remains  neither  rooftrec  nor  wall  ! 
Alack  a-day  !  lintel  and  tlireshold  are  gone, 
While  cold  'neatii  the  weeds  lies  the  hallowed  hearthstone! 
Caledonia's  Blue  Bells,  O  bonnie  Blue  Bells  ! 

'Twas  a  straw-roofed  cottage,  but  love  abode  there. 
And  peace  and  contentment  aye  breathed  in  its  air; 
With  songs  from  the  mother,  and  legends  from  sire, 
How  blithe  were  we  all  round  the  cheerie  peat  fire  ! 
Caledonia's  Blue  Bells,  O  bonnie  Blue  Bells! 

Our  sire  long  asleep,  his  fond  mcni'ry  endeared; 
The  mother  still  spared  us,  beloved  and  revered; 
Sweet  Blue  Bells  with  charmeil  recollections  entwined 
Of  scenes  in  my  childhood  forever  enshrined. 

Caledonia's  Blue  Bells,  O  bonnie  Blue  Bells! 


DUNCAN   MAC  GKEGOK    CKEHAR.  31 


Mr.  John  Laird  Wilson,  the  well-known  New  York  critic,  speaking 
of  the  above  lyric,  said:  "The  accompanying  song  speaks  for  itself, 
It  needs  no  praise  of  ours.  Coming  warm  from  the  heart,  it  finds  its 
way  to  the  heart.  Breathing  i)iety,  patriotism,  filial  and  brotherly 
love,  it  touches  all  the  best  chords  of  our  common  humanity.  It  has 
in  it  the  warmth  of  Highland  blood,  the  flavor  of  Breadalbane  heather, 
the  freshness  of  tlie  mountain  breeze.  We  congratulate  Mr.  Crerar 
on  this  fresh  revelation  of  true  poetic  genius;  and  we  advise  him  to 
throw  aside  his  excess  of  modesty,  and  to  trust  the  public  with  a  fuller 
and  more  adecjuate  manifestation  of  his  powers.  'Caledonia's  151ue 
Bells  '  will  win  for  its  author  many  friends;  but  we,  who  know  what  is 
in  store  for  us,  impatiently  await  better  things." 

Among  Mr.  Crerar's  other  poems  in  connection  with  the  associations 
of  his  youth  we  would  mention  "  My  Bonnie  Rowan  Tree  "  and  "The 
Eirlic  Well."  The  subjects  of  these  poems  are  very  simple,  but  the 
poems  are  clothed  in  such  beautiful  and  touching  language  that  we 
linger  over  them  with  feelings  of  love  and  respectful  admiration.  His 
two  beautiful  poems  addressed  to  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of 
Breadalbane  are  also  worthy  of  special  notice.  We  take  sincere  pleas- 
ure in  re-printing  those  two  pieces  here,  as  the  first  is  a  well-deserved 
compliment  to  a  nobleman  who  is  one  of  the  most  progressive  and 
liberal-minded  Scotsmen  of  the  day,  and  the  other  is  a  just  tribute  of 
respect  to  the  many  sterling  (jualities  and  accomplishments  of  a 
talented  and  kind-hearted  lady: 

TO  THE  MOST  HONOURABLE  THE  MARQUIS  OF  BREADALBANE. 


Beloved  Breadalbane  !  greetings  waft  I  thee, 

On  this  thy  dear,  thine  honoured  natal  day; 

That  Heaven  long  spare  thee,  earnestly  I  pray 
Full  many,  many  glad  returns  to  see. 
Thy  rule  is  wise  o'er  vast  domains  and  wide. 

Rife  in  good  actions  for  thy  people's  weal; 

Each  duty  shared  by  helpmate  kind  and  leal 
Whose  work  and  walk  are  ever  at  thy  side. 
Rule  wisely  on,  for  noble  is  the  race 

O'er  whom  your  governance  holds  loving  sway; 
Yours  their  deep  gratitude  for  acts  of  grace, 

Their  warmest  blessings  crown  you  every  dayl 
How  ricti,  how  sweet,  and  joyous  the  reward, 
Your  people's  jovg  and  their  sincere  regard! 


32  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


TO  ALMA,  MARCHIONESS  OF  BREADALBANE. 


Lady  beloved  !  My  warmest  thanks  to  thee 

For  thy  most  gracious  gift — thine  image  dear — 
I  waft  across  the  wide  Atlantic  sea, 

With  gladdened  heart  and  gratitude  sincere. 
Here  beauteously  and  faithfully  portrayed 

Thy  graceful  form  and  lovelj'  classic  face; 
O  noble  lad}',  thou  art  winsome,  fair, 

And  genial,  kind,  and  full  of  heaven-born  grace  * 

Nor  do  I  thank  thee  less  for  friendly  words 

And  warm  regard  for  thine  so  far  away; 
No  distance  can  undo  the  cords  of  love 
That  bind  us  to  the  home  of  childhood's  day. 
Sweet  as  the  fragrance  of  fresh  heather  bloom. 

The  praises  reach  us  of  thine  acts  benign; 
Thy  charming  courtesy  and  kindness  rare 

We  in  our  hearts  will  treasure  and  enshrine. 

O  wife  devoted  of  Breadalbane's  Lord  ! 

True  Freedom's  cause  a  friend  has  found  in  thee; 
'Twas  thine  own  hand  that  bravely  raised  the  flag 

Which  led  our  Perthshire  on  to  victorie. 
Heaven  bless  you  both  with  peace,  and  spare  you  long 

To  kindly  rule  your  every  strath  and  glen; 
No  land  is  richer  in  romance  and  song; 

No  men  are  braver  than  Breadalbane  men  ! 

Mr.  Crerar  has  been  particularly  fortunate  in  securing  the  friend- 
ship of  nearly  all  of  the  distinguished  literary  Scotsmen  who  have 
visited  America  during  the  last  twenty  years.  George  MacDonald, 
William  Black,  the  Earl  of  Rosebery,  Alexander  Strahan,  Marchioness 
of  Breadalbane,  Prof.  James  Geikie,  Prof.  John  Stuart  Blackie,  and 
many  others  are  among  his  hosts  of  admirers  and  correspondents. 
Mrs.  William  Black,  among  many  other  tokens  of  kindly  remembrance 
sent  him,  on  one  occasion,  a  spray  of  white-  heather,  which  immedi- 
ately called  forth  the  following  lines: 


DUNCAN  MACGKEGOR    CRERAR.  35 


A   SPRAY  OF  WHITE    HEATHER. 


1  l(jviii;;l\-  1,'rfct  thee,  swccl  spray  of  wliiie  licalhcr, 

With  a  heartfelt  emotion  I  would  not  conceal ! 
Thou  coni'sl  from  a  friend  true  in  shade  and  bright  weather, 

Wiio  in  kintlness  is  waini  as  in  friendship  she's  leal. 

Good  fortune  and  luck  aye  attend  nie  together, 
Is  the  wish  tiiou  dost  bring  from  the  donor  to  me, 

Charmed  tnibleni  of  both  I  bonnie  spray  of  white  heather, 
From  the  land  of  my  fathers  far  over  the  sea. 

Fair  token,  thou'rt  chaste  as  the  heart  of  the  sender, 

Hringing  fond  recollections  of  life's  early  day — 
Of  kin,  friends,  and  country,  and  ties  the  most  tender, 

Ere  from  kin,  friends,  and  country  I  wandered  away. 

Good  fortune  and  luck  aye  attend  me  together, 
Is  the  wish  thou  dost  bring  from  the  donor  to  me. 

Charmed  emblem  of  both  !  bonnie  spray  of  white  heather, 
From  the  land  of  my  fathers  far  over  the  sea. 

I  never  may  see,  pretty  spray  of  white  heather, 

Caledonia's  loved  glens  and  her  mountains  so  grand; 

I  may  ne'er  again  with  the  dear  ones  forgather, 

But  my  blessings  on  them  and  my  dear  native  land! 

Good  fortune  and  luck  aye  attend  me  together. 
Is  the  wish  thou  dost  bring  from  the  donor  to  me, 

Charmed  emblem  of  both  !  bonnie  spray  of  white  heather. 
From  the  land  of  my  fathers  far  over  the  sea. 

Thou  gift  of  a  friend  !  I  will  treasure  thee  dearly, 
Till  my  journey  shall  end  in  that  long  peaceful  rest, 

When  some  loving  hand  mine  had  oft  pressed  sincerely 
]May  with  tenderness  place  thee,  sweet  spray,  on  my  breast. 

Good  fortune  and  luck  aye  attend  me  together, 
Is  the  wish  thou  dost  bring  from  the  donor  to  me. 

Charmed  emblem  of  both  !  bonnie  spray  of  white  heather. 
From  the  land  of  my  fathers  far  over  the  sea. 

Although  Mr.  Crerar  excels  in  pieces  of  an  elegiac  nature,  he  has 
written  many  short  pieces  full  of  a  joyous  hopefulness  looking  on  the 
brighter  side  of  life  and  a  sweet  assurance  of  a  glad  hereafter.  Of 
these  his  "To-morrow  "  is  probably  the  best: 


34  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


TO-MORROW. 


Away  with  grief;  dull  care,  away; 

Away  with  canker,  pain  and  sorrow; 
Where  black  clouds  scowl  and  frown  to-day, 

The  sun  will  brightly  shine  to-morrow. 
The  weary  heart,  when  sore  depressed, 

Too  oft,  alas  !  will  trouble  borrow. 
But  joy  will  banish  what  distressed, 

And  e)'es  that  wept  will  smile  to-morrow. 

Why  should  we  grieve  though  friends  forsake — 

If  one  is  left  that's  true  and  thorough 
In  adverse  hours,  who  will  partake 

And  share  our  woe  or  weal  to-morrow  ? 
No  peaceful  place  of  rest  is  this. 

Here  no  immunity  from  sorrow. 
But  an  enduring  home  and  bliss 

Await  above  when  comes  the  morrow! 

It  would  give  us  sincere  pleasure  to  present  a  few  of  Mr.  Crerar's 
sonnets  to  our  readers,  but  we  will  confine  ourselves  to  the  one  already 
given  and  the  two  following.  They  are  entitled  "  To  Robert  Gordon, 
Esq.,"  and  "To  WilUam  Black,  Poet  and  Novelist."  Mr.  Gordon  was 
long  and  well  known  as  one  of  the  leading  bankers  in  our  community. 
He  returned  to  his  native  shores  a  few  years  ago,  hence  the  lines: 

TO  ROBERT  GORDON,  ESQ. 


Farewell,  dear  friend,  since  farewell  it  must  be; 
Our  hearts  are  heavy,  and  our  tears  are  flowing, 
For  sorrowfully  grieve  we  at  thy  going. 

As  true  aflfection's  grasp  we  give  to  thee. 

We  grudge  thee  not  to  our  loved  fatherland. 
Whither  our  warmest  wishes  with  thee  go: 
Thy  record  pure;  thou  leav'st  behind  no  foe. 

Undimmed  thine  honour,  and  unstained  thy  hand! 

We'll  miss  from  circle  charmed  and  curling  fray 
Thy  cheerie  voice  and  ever  genial  face; 

Thy  name  will  cherished  be  when  far  away, 
Thou  worthy  son  of  Kenmure's  noble  race. 

Forget  us  not:  remember  auld  lang  sync. 

Heaven's  blessing  rest,  leal  friend,  on  thee  and  thine! 


DUNCAN  MACGREGOR    CRERAR.  35 


TO  WILLIAM  BLACK,  POET  AND  NOVELIST. 


'Tis  thine  to  wickl  a  chaste  and  charm6d  pen 

That  thrills  and  gladdens  hearts  in  every  clime, 

With  story  modern  or  of  olden  time. 
Congenial  comrade,  faithfullest  of  men! 
Thy  leaves  are  redolent  of  heather  breeze; 

With  deft  skill  thou  pourtray'st  each  beauteous  scene, 

Glen,  strath,  and  loch,  and  setting  sun  serene. 
In  inland  shire  or  lonely  Hebrides. 
The  people  thou  creat'st  bear  Nature's  mould. 

Endowed  with  dignity  and  grace  are  they; 

Life's  march  they  cheer  with  some  sweet  Scottish  lay, 
Or  psalm,  or  ballad  of  the  years  of  old. 
Write  ever  on,  loved  friend,  for  at  thy  gate 
Admiring  millions  do  thy  lines  await! 

Probably  the  finest  of  all  Mr.  Crerar's  i)roductions  is  his  poem  on 
Robert  Burns.  This  poem  was  comi)osed  for  and  read  at  one  of  the 
annual  dinners  of  the  Burns  Society  of  this  city.  It  was  afterward 
published  in  book-form  by  Marcus  Ward  &  Co.,  and  received  quite 
an  ovation  from  the  press  and  public.  As  one  writer  remarks  : — "  It 
has  the  true  ring  of  poetry,  and  within  a  comparatively  small  space  it 
hits  off"  the  salient  features  of  Burns'  character  and  commemorates 
the  principal  subject  of  his  works.  "  We  quote  two  verses  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  whole: 

"He  touched  our  country's  ancient  harp 

With  truest  patriotic  fire; 
Forth  thrilling  came  soul-stirring  strains, 

Man's  nobler  actions  to  inspire. 
The  cottar's  fireside,  'neath  his  spell, 

Becomes  at  once  a  hallowed  shrine; 
His  hymn  to  Mary  swells  the  heart, 

And  fills  the  eye  his  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
*  *  *  * 

"Not  to  his  native  land  alone 

His  genius  and  his  fame  belong. 
In  other  climes  is  treasured  dear 

His  matchless  legacy  of  song. 
His  melodies  have  echoing  gone 

To  continents  and  isles  afar; 
They  cheer  and  gladden  hearts  alike 

'Neath  Southern  Cross  and  Polar  Star." 


36  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Prof.  John  Stuart  Blackie,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Crerar,  ?ays: 
"  I  am  now  among  '  Yarrow's  Braes  and  Ettricks  Shaws  '  tasting  a 
little  rural  quiet  and  pastoral  rest.  I  have  read  your  Songs  with 
peculiar  pleasure.  'Caledonia's  Blue  Bells',  'A  Spray  of  White  Heath- 
er', and  'Tomorrow'  being  my  special  favorites.  It  is  delightful  to  see 
with  what  pious  joy  the  Highlanders  cherish  the  heroic  traditions,  and 
the  sweet  memories  of  their  country  when  far  across  the  sea.  Next  to 
the  Bible,  popular  song  is  the  great  moral  force  that  makes  rich  the 
blood  of  the  world;  and  a  man  that  keeps  a  singing  bird  in  his  heart, 
holds  a  claim  even  more  potent  on  occasions  to  disarm  the  Devil  than 
a  text  of  Scripture."  Among  the  other  well-known  poems  by  Mr. 
Crerar,  we  would  specially  refer  to  the  following:  "  Mementos  of  My 
Father's  Grave,"  "A  Christmas  Greeting  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James 
Brand,"  "My  Hero  True  Frae  Bennachie,"  "A  Guid  New  Year," 
addressed  to  Mr.  Thomas  Davidson  Brown,  "  To  Mr.  William  Drjsdale 
of  Montreal,"  "  The  Victory  Won,"  "In  Memoriam  :  Jane  Jardine 
Marsh,"  "Gone  Before,"  and  the  three  exquisite  pieces — "A  Full 
Blown  Flower,"  "A  Bridal  Greeting,"  and  "  The  Orange  Wreath  for 
Heaven's  Crown,"  which  are  now  bound  together  and  issued  (pri- 
vately) as  an  "  In  Memoriam  Souvenir "  of  the  late  Mrs.  Fuller, 
daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walter  Watson.  Before  closing  our  selec- 
tions and  extracts  from  the  contributions  of  Mr.  Crerar  to  the  poetical 
literature  of  our  time,  we  desire  to  present  to  our  readers  a  poem 
composed  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Mr.  David  Kennedy,  the 
Scottish  vocalist.  He  died  at  Stratford,  Ontario,  on  the  thirteenth  of 
October,  1886. 

SUNG  INTO  HEAVEN  ! 


Sung  into  heaven  !  meet  end  to  thy  long  day; 
Rare  songster  !  who  sang  Scottish  song  and  lay 
In  earth's  four  quarters,  and  on  every  sea, 
Hearts  ever  gladdening  with  thy  minstrelsic. 
Thine  was  a  magic  power  to  soothe  or  thrill, 
The  eye  with  joy  or  sorrow's  tears  to  fill, 
To  kindle  love,  rouse  patriotism's  fire, 
When  to  impassioned  strains  attuned  thy  lyre. 
How  sweetly  blended  with  thy  melodic. 
The  charmed  notes  of  thy  gifted  family, 
A  group,  alas,  we  never  more  shall  see! 
Proud  of  the  name  and  fame  thy  genius  won, 
Our  native  Perthshire,  mourns  her  minstrel  son; 


DUNCAN  MACGREGOR    CRERAR.  37 

Foss,  fanned  by  breezes  from  Loch  Tiimmel's  shore — 

Thy  brave  sires'  cradlc-lanil  in  da^s  of  yore — 

Rroad  Scotland,  and  all  lands  that  thou  did'st  see, 

Join  now  in  one  grand  coronach  to  thee. 

To  her  who  was  thy  helpmate  leal  throui,'h  life, 

Thy  faithful,  loving,  and  beloved  wife, 

And  to  thy  comely,  sweet-voiced  children  dear, 

All  with  one  heart  waft  sympathy  sincere. 

Sung  into  heaven  !  by  thine  own  filial  band; 

Thy  blessing,  parting  kiss,  and  grasp  of  hand; 

Sung  into  heaven  !  in  a  sweet,  holy  calm. 

Thine  own  voice  melting  in  the  farewell  psalm! 

Duncan  MacGre^or  Crerar  was  born  at  Ainiilree,  Glenquaich, 
Perthshire,  December  4, 1837.  He  received  a  good  education,  and  was 
destined  by  liis  parents  for  the  ministry.  These  intentions,  however, 
were  abandoned  on  the  death  of  his  father.  In  1857  lie  went  to 
Canada,  where  he  engaged  for  a  number  of  years  in  mercantile  pursuits. 
He  also  served  for  some  time  in  the  active  militia  on  the  frontier,  and 
in  recognition  of  his  valuable  services,  the  Canadian  Government, 
when  under  the  direction  of  his  warm  friend,  the  Honorable  Alexander 
MacKenzie,  gazetted  him  Honorary  Lieutenant  f)f  the  company 
wiili  whi(  h  he  served.  For  many  years  lie  lias  been  engaged  on  a 
large  poem  which  is  now  completed,  and  about  to  be  published. 
One  of  his  friends  says  :  "  This  poem  will  have  immense  attraction  for 
lovers  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  but  particularly  those  who  are  famil- 
iar with  the  matchless  scenery,  the  family  histories  and  the  legendary 
lore  of  Perthshire."  In  conclusion  we  would  state  that  Mr.  Crerar  is 
one  of  the  most  genial  of  men,  kind,  sympathetic  and  generous  in  all 
his  actions.  In  his  own  ipiict,  unobtrusive  way,  and  unknown  to  the 
world,  he  has  rendered  assistance  to  many  wlien  they  found  the  clouds 
of  adversity  hovering  over  them:  and  there  are  few  men  similarly  cir- 
cumstanced who  can  boast  of  so  large  and  so  sincere  a  following  of 
friends. 


410789 


JAMES    KENNEDY. 

To  whom  the  lyre  nnd  laurels  have  been  given, 

With  all  the  trophies  of  triumphant  song — 

He  won  them  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long! 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  born  at  Carsegownie,  Forfarshire,  in  the  year 
1848.     According  to  a  memoir  of  him  which   appears  in  "Modern 
Scottish  Poets,"  he  '"is  of  Celtic  origin,  being  descended  through  his 
father  from  the  Kennedys  of  Lochaber,  and  through  his  mother — from 
whom  he  inherits  his  literary  taste  and  poetic  temperament — from  the 
Mackintoshes  of  Glenshee.     We  also  learn  from  the  same  source  that 
after  the  suppression  of  the  rebellion,  1745-6,  "A  branch  of  the  Ken- 
nedys settled  in  Forfarshire  and  sought  employment  in  the  extensive 
quarries  of  that  county.     Their  descendants  chiefly  followed  the  same 
occupation,  and  the  poet's  father  rose  to  be  a  moderately  successful 
contractor.     Dying,  when  barely  past  the  meridian  of  life,  his  widow 
was  left  burdened  with  the  task,  of  rearing  a  family  of  ten  children,  of 
whom  James  was  the  seventh,  and  some  of  whom  were  in  infancy." 
Mr.  Kennedy  studied  at  the  village  school  for  a  few  years  and  at  the 
age  of  twelve  began  the  battle  of  life  on  his  own  account  as  a  farmer's 
boy.     A  few  years  later  he  removed  to  Dundee,  where  he  entered 
upon  an  apprenticeship  as  a  machinist.     At  this  time  he  was  an  enthu- 
siastic athlete  and  was  credited  with  being  a  Hercules  for  his  size. 
The  casket  of  medals  now  in  his  possession  bears  witness  to  the  many 
wonderful  feats  both  of  skill  and  of  strength  which   he  performed. 
Apart  from  the  celebrity  which  he  acquired  as  an  athlete,  however,  he 
became  interested  in  the  agitation  then  in  progress  for  the  bettering 
of  the  agricultural  classes  in  Scotland,  and  was  soon  known  as  one  of 
the  most  active  promoters  of  the  cause.     It  also  seems  to  have  been 
about  this  time  that  he  discovered  his  ability  at  verse-making.     He 
had   written  a  few  pieces  of  a  lyrical   nature,  and   these   had  been 
accorded  a  jjrominent  ])lace  in  the  columns  of  one  of  the  local  jour- 
nals.   This  had  encouraged  and  stimulated  him  to  make  greater  efforts, 


JAMES  KENNEDY.  39 


and  he  decided  to  begin  a  diligent  course  of  study  in  the  different 
branches  of  English  education.  He  also  devoted  whatever  time  he 
could  spare  in  carefully  reading  the  works  of  Ramsay,  P^ergusson,  Burns, 
Scott,  and  the  other  master  poets  of  Scotland,  and  as  a  result  his  mind 
gradually  conformed  to  their  style  of  composition.  As  time  wore  on 
he  became  a  regular  and  popular  i)oetical  contributor  to  a  number  of 
newspapers  and  magazines,  and  when  he  had  reached  his  twentieth 
birthday  his  fame  as  a  poet  of  more  than  ordinary  ability  had  been 
firmly  established  in  many  parts  of  Scotland.  He  began  to  contem- 
plate a  visit  to  America,  however.  He  believed  that  there  was  a  larger 
and  a  more  remunerative  field  here  for  the  better  class  of  mechanics 
than  there  was  in  any  part  of  Great  Britain,  and  he  resolved  to  put  his 
belief  to  a  practical  test,  for  a  time  at  least.  Acting  on  a  sudden 
impulse  he  appeared  before  his  friends  one  morning  and  bade  them 
good  bye,  and  ere  the  shades  of  that  evening  had  fallen,  he  was  being 
wafted  from  the  land  of  his  forefathers  to  the  shores  of  the  new  world. 
We  can  easily  imagine  that  it  was  not  without  the  deepest  emotion 
that  he  gazed,  for  what  might  be  the  last  time,  on  the  stern  outlines 
of  his  native  land  as  they  slowly  receded  from  his  sight.  To  him  the 
fatherland  was  the  one  fair  spot  on  earth,  and  his  love  for  it  was  akin 
to  that  for  his  Bible.     It  was  the  land  of  which  he  so  proudly  sings  : 

Where  the  rowans  hang  like  lustres 

Red  within  the  shady  dells; 
And  the  sweet  blaeberry  clusters 

Blue  among  the  heather-bells; 

Where  the  laverock  and  the  lintic 

Sing  their  lilts  o'  pure  delight; 
And  the  robin  whistles  canty 

To  the  warbling  ycUow-yite; 

Where  the  deeds  o'  martial  glory 

Hallow  like  hill  and  dale; 
Where  the  wild,  romantic  story 

Casts  its  charm  o'er  ilka  vale. 

Where  sweet  poesy  pipes  her  numbers 

Till  the  minstrel's  airy  dream 
Haunts  the  wild  where  echo  slumbers, 
Sings  in  ilka  crystal  stream; 

Where  true  manhood  dwells  serenel}-, 

Moulded  in  heroic  grace. 
And  fair  virtue,  meek  but  queenly, 

Beams  in  woman's  anycl  face. 


40  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

He  landed  in  New  York  early  in  1869,  and  for  the  next  three  years 
travelled  extensively  throughout  the  States,  and  worked  in  many  of 
the  principal  locomotive  shops  in  the  country.  Returning  to  New 
York  in  the  Summer  of  1872  he  settled  down  here,  and  a  few  months 
afterward  published  his  first  great  poem,  a  metrical  romance,  which 
was  favorably  received  by  the  American  people,  and  of  which  a  large 
edition  was  rapidly  sold.  He  also  resumed  his  studies,  and  we  learn 
from  the  work  already  mentioned  that  "  by  attending  the  New  York 
Evening  High  School,  and  while  still  following  the  calling  of  a  machinist, 
he  made  the  most  laudable  efforts  to  remedy  the  deficiencies  of  his 
early  education.  In  a  few  years  he  graduated  in  the  regular  literary 
course.  In  1875  he  was  awarded  the  first  prize  for  English  composi- 
tion. In  1876  he  was  commended  both  for  excellence  in  oratory  and 
for  rapid  progress  in  the  study  of  the  Latin  language.  His  periodical 
contributions  to  the  press,  both  of  Scotland  and  America,  demonstrated 
his  growing  culture.  His  language  was  rapidly  becoming  more  vigorous 
and  pure,  and  his  thought  more  elevated."  At  this  time  Mr.  Kennedy 
was  united  in  marriage  by  the  late  Rev.  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  to  Miss 
Isabella  Lowe,  an  estimable  young  lady  from  his  native  hills,  and  one 
who  has  since  proved  herself  a  true  helpmate  to  him  in  every  sense  of 
the  word.  The  first  great  grief  that  overshadowed  their  lives  was  in 
the  death  of  their  first  born,  an  affectionate  and  robust  little  boy  who 
passed  to  the  unseen  world  about  his  third  year.  On  this  sad  occasion 
Mr.  Kennedy  produced  one  of  his  finest  and  most  touching  little  poems. 
We  can  all  appreciate  the  heavy  sorrow,  while  many  of  us  no  doubt, 
at  some  period  of  our  lives,  could  have  re-echoed  the  wish  expressed 
in  the  verses  entitled 

WEE  CHARLIE. 


"  I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me." — II.  Samuel, 
i2th  c.  Z3d  V. 

O  gin  my  heart  could  hac  its  wiss 

Within  this  weary  warld  o'care, 
I'd  ask  nae  glow  o'  balmy  bliss 

To  dwell  around  me  evcrmair. 
For  joy  were  mine  beyond  compare, 

And  O  how  happy  would  I  be, 
If  heaven  would  grant  my  earnest  prayer, 

An'  bring  wee  Charlie  back  to  me. 


JAMES  KENNEDY.  41 


He  cam'  like  sunshine  when  the  buds 

Burst  into  blossoms  sweet  an'  gay, 
He  dwell  like  sunshine  when  the  duds 

Are  vanish'd  frae  the  eye  o'  day. 
He  pass'd  as  dayiicht  fades  away 

An'  darkness  spreads  owre  land  and  sea, 
Nae  wonder  thouj^h  in  ^''''-'f  I  P^ay, 

O  brinji;  wee  Charlie  back  to  me. 

When  pleasure  brings  her  hollow  joys, 

Or  mirth  awakes  at  friendship's  ca', 
Or  art  her  varied  power  employs 

To  make  dull  time  look  blythe  an'  braw. 
How  feckless  seem  they  ane  an'  a' 

When  sad  remembrance  dims  my  c'e; 
O  tak'  thae  idle  joys  awa 

An'  bring  wee  Charlie  back  to  me. 

But  vain's  the  cry,  he  maunna  cross 

Frae  where  he  dwells  in  bliss  unseen 
Nor  need  I  mourn  my  waefu'  loss, 

Nor  muse  on  joys  that  micht  hae  been. 
When  cauld  death  comes  to  close  my  een 

Awa  beyond  life's  troublous  sea. 
In  everlasting  joy  serene. 

They'll  bring  wee  Charlie  back  to  me. 

It  has  truly  been  said  that  "  Mr.  Kennedy's  lyre  is  not  an  instrument 

of  one  string.     He  passes  with  apparent  ease  from  touching  pathos  to 

broad  humor,  and  sings  with  scarcely  greater  fervor  of  Caledonia  than 

of  the  Union's  'bright  flag's  starry  fold'  with  its  'blended  crimson, 

blue  and  gold.' "     In  the  realm  of  descriptive  poetry  he  is  unrivalled 

by  any  of  his  contemporaries.     He  portrays  natural  scenery  in  the 

most  delightful  and  graphic  of  language,  and  many  of  his  passages 

become  linked  to  our  memory  by  their  simple  beauty  and  truthful 

delineations  of  nature.     In  some  instances  they  almost  seem  like  a 

mirror  reflecting  back  with  wonderful  reality  the  scenes  amid  which 

we   passed   our   boyhood's  days.     Noran  Water,  for  instance,  is  an 

excellent  descriptive  poem.     It  is  too  long  for  quotation  here,  but  an 

idea  of  its  many  beautiful  passages  may  be  gathered  from  the  following 

extract : 

O  Noran  !  how  I  see  thee  dance 

By  heath-clad  hills,  alone,  unseen. 
Save  where  the  lonely  eagle's  glance 

Surveys  thee  from  his  crag  serene. 


42  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Forever  joyous  thou  dost  seem. 
Still  sportive  as  a  child  at  play, 

Who,  lost  in  pleasure's  careless  dream, 
Makes  merry  music  all  the  day. 

By  fairj'  nooks  I  see  thee  flow, 

Nor  pausing  in  th}'  artless  song 
Till  where  the  fir  trees  spreading  low 

Obscure  thy  stream  their  arms  among. 
There,  sweet  amid  the  shady  gloom, 

Thou  hear'st  the  blackbird  chant  his  lay, 
Thou  see'st  the  pale  primroses  bloom, 

And  silent  ling'rest  on  thy  way; 

Then  forth  thj-  waters  dazzling  come 

Where  sweet-brier  scents  the  balmy  breeze. 
And  where  the  wild  bees  softl}^  hum 

Faint  echo  of  thy  harmonies. 
Green  spik\'  gorsc  thy  banks  adorn. 

Gold  tassell'd  broom  thy  fringe-work  weave. 
While  feather'd  choirs  from  dewy  morn 

Make  melody  till  dewv  eve. 


Then  on  by  pleasant  farms  that  breathe 

Of  calm  contentment's  happ\-  clime. 
Or  laughing  where  the  ivy's  wreath 

Clings  round  the  ruins  of  olden  time 
And  on  where  stateh'  mansions  rise. 

Or  lowly  gleams  the  cottage  hearth; 
Unchanged  thy  smile  still  meets  the  skies, 

Unchanged  still  rings  thy  song  of  mirth. 

Mr.  Kennedy  is  possessed  of  a  large  and  manly  heart,  and  he  looks 
with  undisguised  enjoyment  upon  the  humorous  side  of  human  nature. 
What  he  terms  his  character  sketches  are  full  of  genuine  wit,  and 
provoke  bursts  of  laughter  whenever  they  are  read.  They  are  all  the 
more  enjoyable  by  having  a  pleasing  and  wholesome  moral  attached 
to  each.  In  addition  to  these  he  has  written  many  short  i)ieces  of  a 
humorous  and  satirical  nature.  In  this  respect  those  of  our  readers 
who  are  familiar  with  the  peculiarities  and  expressiveness  of  the 
Scottish  dialect  will  greatly  appreciate  the  following  : 


JAMES  KENNEDY.  43 


ST.  ANDREW  AND  THE  HAGGIS. 


Ae  time  Saunt  Andrew — honest  carl, 
When  on  his  travels  llimigh  the  warl, 
He  fand  himsel'  in  great  distress 
In  Macedonia's  wilderness, 
Grim  hiin<(cr  jjnawcd  his  wame  williin, 
The  cauld  sleet  soaked  him  to  the  skin; 
An'  bufleted  \vi'  winds  unruly 
He  lookit  like  a  tattie  doolj-; 
An'  trauchled  ae  way  or  anither 
Tint  cowl  and  bauchles  a'lhegither, 
An'  skelp'd  on  barefit  though  the  gloom 
In  patient,  perfect  martyrdom. 

A'  shivering  like  a  droukit  mouse, 
He  halted  at  the  half-way  house. 
An'  spreading  out  his  open  palms 
Fu'  meekly  beggit  for  an  alms. 
The  landlord  steer'd  na  frae  the  bit, 
But  e'ed  the  Saunt  frae  head  to  fit. 
An'  said  : — "You  idle,  gangrel  crew. 
Coarse  crumbs  should  sair  the  like  o'you 
I  set  ye  doun  this  bill  o'fare: 
The  shakin's  o'  the  rneal-pock  there, 
Some  harigalds,  an'  sic'  like  trash. 
That  puir  fowk  use  for  makin'  hash. 
Tak'  them,  an'  mixed  wi'  creeshie  dreep. 
Boil  in  the  stammack  o'  a  sheep; 
An'  gin  your  greedy  gab  be  nice, 
There's  ingans  an'  a  shak'  o'  spice: — 
Fa'  to, — mak'  guid  use  o'your  time. 
An'  ken  the  rift  o'  stappit  wame." 

The  Saunt  in  silence — shivering,  cauld. 
Made  up  the  mess  as  he  was  tauld; 
An'  bent  him  canny  owre  the  pot,   • 
An'  render'd  thanks  for  a'  he  got; 
An'  ate  his  meal  wi'  cheerfu'  grace. 
An'  never  thraw'd  his  honest  face  ! 

An'  .aye  sin'  syne,  on  Andrew's  nicht 
We  see  this  extraordinar'  sicht, — 
How  social  Scots  owre  a' the  warl' 
Will  leave  the  fu'  cog  an'  the  barrel, 
An'  smack  their  lips,  an'  rive  like  mad. 


44  SCOTTISrf  POETS  W  AMERICA. 

At  sic  a  dish  as  Andrew  had. 
An'  'gainst  the  pangs  o'  flesh  and  bluid 
They'll  roose  It  up  an'  ca'  it  guid, 
Though  feeling  in  their  hearts'  ain  gloom 
Some  pangs  o'  Andrew's  martyrdom  ! 

Among  Mr.  Kennedy's  smaller  poems  his  "Address  to  the  Mosqui- 
toes," "Auld  Scotia  in  the  Field,"  "  Bonnie  Noranside  "  and  "Angus 
Rankin's  Elegy  "  are  specially  worthy  of  notice,  while  his  verses 
entitled  the  "  The  Songs  of  Scotland  "  surpass  everything  hitherto 
written  in  verse  in  connection  with  that  subject.  Of  his  larger  poems, 
"The  Southern  Cavalier"  is  decidedly  the  best.  It  is  a  remarkable 
piece  of  poetical  fact  and  fiction  blended  together,  and  through  which 
there  rings,  says  the  Fifeshire  Journal  "  an  honest  echo  of  the  passion 
and  beauty  of  Tennyson's  '  Maud,' "  Mr.  Kennedy  numbers  among  his 
personal  friends  many  of  the  most  prominent  scholars  and  authors  of 
the  day.  Among  the  latter  is  Mr.  Robert  Buchanan,  the  eminent  poet 
and  novelist.  They  have  a  very  sincere  regard  for  each  other's  merits, 
and  during  Mr.  Buchanan's  sojourn  in  this  country,  some  three  years 
ago,  the  two  poets  spent  many  happy  and  profitable  hours  in  each 
other's  company.  A  few  days  after  Mr.  Buchanan  sailed  for  home, 
Mr.  Kennedy  indulged  his  muse  in  the  following  lament,  which,  by  the 
way,  was  widely  quoted  by  the  British  press: 

LAMENT 

On  the  occasion  of  the  departure  of  Robert  Buchanan, 
the  British  poet,  from  America. 

My  muse  fu'  dowie  faulds  her  wing, 

An'  nought  but  sabs  an' sighs  she'll  bring: 

An'  sad-eyed  sorrow  bids  me  sing, 

Her  tears  to  draw, 
How,  like  a  pilgrim  journeying, 

Our  bard's  awa  ! 

O  Rab  was  bright  an'  warm  an'  free, 
Like  sunlight  on  a  simmer  sea  ! 
He  aye  was  fu"  o'  mirth  an'  glee 

An'  wit  an'  a'; 
An'  graced  wi'  gifts  of  poesy — 

But  Rab's  awa ! 


jAAfKS  A'PIJ^NEDV.  45 


O  blitlie  it  was  I  trow  to  trace 
The  sweet  saul  in  his  manly  fare, 
His  blue  een  sparklinjj  kindly  grace 

On  ane  an'  a'; 
Rab  dearly  lo'ed  the  human  race — 

Hut  Rab's  awa  ! 

The  puir  newspaper  chields  may  mourn, 
If  Rab  should  never  niair  return; 
His  words  cam  like  a  bick'rin  burn 

An'  tilled  them  a': 
He  did  them  mony  a  friendly  turn — 
But  Rab's  awa  ! 

Play-actor  billies  round  him  hung, 
An'  listen'd  to  his  silv'ry  tongue. 
That  sweet  as  ony  clair'net  rung 

In  house  or  ha': 
He  was  the  pride  o'  auld  an'  young — 

But  Rab's  awa  ! 

The  lang-haired  literary  louns 
That  live  real  puir  in  muckle  touns, 
Will  miss  him  for  the  royal  boons 

He  shower'd  on  a,' — 
Gold  dollar  bits  as  big's  half  crowns, — 

But  Rab's  awa  ! 

O  when  he  met  wi*  men  o'  spirit. 
Real  clever  chields  o'  modest  merit, 
Owre  oysters  an'  a  glass  o'  claret, — 

O  then — hurrah  ! 
The  very  earth  they  did  inherit, — 

But  Rab's  awa  ! 

That  day  he  gaed  on  board  the  ship. 
He  gied  my  hand  a  kindly  grip. 
An'  while  a  tremor  shook  his  lip, 

Said — "Tell  them  a' 
Tliey'll  never  frae  my  memory  slip 

When  I'm  awa." 

Quo'  I  wi'  heart  as  saft  as  jeel, 

"Braw  be  your  chance  in  fortune's  wheel. 

May  seas  slip  past  your  sliding  keel 

Wi'  canny  jaw, 
An'  may  the  bodies  use  ye  weel 
When  far  awa." 


46  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Sin  syne  I  muse  on  fortune's  quirk: 
She  shines,  then  leaves  me  in  the  mirk; 
I  canna  sleep  nor  wreat  nor  wirk, 

Nor  ought  ava, — 
I'm  doited  as  a  daunder'd  stirk 

Sin  Rab's  awa. 

But  whiles  round  friendship's  wreathed  urn, 
Hope's  vestal  fires  fu'  brightly  burn; 
An'  though  the  vanish'd  joys  I  mourn 

That  blossomed  braw, 
Wha  kens  but  Rab  ma}'  yet  return  ?  — 

Though  Rab's  awa  ! 

In  addition  to  his  poetical  works,  Mr,  Kennedy  is  the  author  of  a 
serial  story,  entitled  "Willie  Watson,"  and  he  has  written  numerous 
articles  on  various  subjects.  He  re-visited  Scotland  in  1883,  and  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  many  eminent  persons  who  had  become  acquainted 
with  him  through  his  works.  His  latest  volume  of  poetry,  entitled 
"  Poems  on  Scottish  and  American  Subjects,"  has  passed  through  two 
e.Ktensive  editions,  and  we  understand  that  he  is  now  engaged  in  the 
preparation  of  a  new  and  larger  edition  of  his  poetical  writings.  He 
is  employed  by  the  Elevated  Railroad  Companies  and  has  charge  of  a 
section  of  their  works.  A  welcome  guest  at  every  Scottish  social 
gathering,  he  is  also  a  capital  extemporary  speech-maker  on  these 
and  other  occasions.  He  is  a  resident  of  this  city,  and,  surrounded 
by  the  members  of  his  family,  enjoys  the  comforts  and  pleasures  of  a 
happy  home.  Life  did  not  run  smoothly  with  him  at  the  beginning, 
but  he  met  its  vicissitudes  with  courage  and  good  will,  and  to  use  the 
language  of  another  poet,  "  Out  of  it  all  has  conne  the  plain  fact  that 
he  can  now  sit  under  his  own  vine  and  fig-tree  with  no  one  to  make 
him  afraid."  

Since  the  foregoing  sketch  was  written,  Mr.  Chas,  T.  Dillingham, 
New  York,  has  published  "  The  Deeside  Lass,  and  Other  Poems,"  by 
Mr.  Kennedy.  Of  this  work,  W.  D.  Latto,  Editor  of  The  Peoples 
Journal^  says  :  "  I  have  read  '  The  Deeside  Lass '  with  much  interest 
and  admiration.  The  composition  is  good.  The  best  bit  in  the  poem 
is  the  interview  between  the  '  Dominie  and  the  Minister.'  The 
description  of  their  toddy  drinking  and  their  'cracks'  is  first-rate;" 
and  J.  Logic  Robertson,  author  of  "  Horace  in  Hamespun,"  writes: 
"I  have  read  'The  Deeside  Lass '  with  pleasure,  chiefly  because  of 
the  freshness  of  the  style.  The  descriptive  parts  of  the  poem  are  very 
good.  The  best  bits  of  characterization  are  Lady  Meg  and  Black 
Tam.     Lady  Meg's  piety  is  refreshing.     Tam  is  a  splendid  character." 


PROF.    JAMES    C.    MOFFAT. 

— The  warrior's  name, 
Tlio'  pralcd  and  chim'd  on  all  the  tongues  of  fame, 

Sounds  less  luirnionious  to  the  ffratcful  mind 
Than  his,  who  fashions  and  improves  mankind. 

At  Glencree,  in  the  South  of  Scotland,  on  the  thirtieth  day  of  May, 
1811,  there  was  born  of  poor  but  honest  and  industrious  parents  a 
child,  who  in  course  of  time  grew  up,  and  at  an  early  age  began  the 
battle  of  life  as  a  shepherd's  boy.  Tending  his  flocks  day  by  day 
among  the  hills  and  glens,  far  from  his  home  and  his  friends,  he  was 
thus  led  into  a  closer  companionship  with  nature  in  all  her  wonderful 
beauties  than  he  would  otherwise  have  been,  and  soon  he  began  to 
discover  that  there  were 

"  Books  in  ihc  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones, 
And  good  in  everything." 

Gradually  his  mind  expanded,  and  imperceptibly  a  desire  for 
knowledge  and  an  earnest  wish  to  become  something  better  and  nobler 
than  what  he  was  naturally  took  possession  of  his  heart.  Up  to  his 
sixteenth  year  he  had  received  little,  or,  at  all  events,  a  very  imperfect 
education,  but  at  this  age  he  apprenticed  himself  to  a  printer,  not  with 
a  view  of  learning  that  trade,  but  simply  as  a  means  of  obtaining  access 
to  books.  His  duties  here  occupied  his  attention  for  ten  hours  each 
day,  yet  so  willing  a  scholar  was  he  that  during  his  spare  hours  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years  he  had  mastered  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  a  little 
of  Persian  and  several  other  European  languages.  Such  in  brief  was 
the  boyhood  of  James  C.  Moffat,  the  now  venerable  and  greatly 
respected  Professor  of  Clum  li  History  in  the  Theological  Seminary 
at  Princeton.  In  1833  he  emigrated  to  America,  and  shortly  after  his 
arrival  in  New  York,  through  the  advice  and  assistance  of  a  few  friends, 
entered  the  junior  class  at  Princeton  College  and  graduated  in  1835. 
Pie  was  then  offered  and  accepted  a  position  as  private  tutor  to  two 


48  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

young  gentlemen  who  were  about  to  study  at  Yale  College,  and  one  of 
whom  afterwards  ranked  among  the  most  eminent  Greek  scholars  in 
Europe.  We  now  quote  from  the  Princeton  Review  :  "At  the  end  of 
about  two  years  Mr.  Moffat  returned  to  Princeton  as  Greek  tutor,  in 
which  capacity  he  continued  till  September,  1839,  when  he  accepted 
the  appointment  to  the  Professorship  of  Greek  and  Latin  in  Lafayette 
College,  then  under  the  presidency  of  Dr.  Junkin.  In  the  Spring  of 
1841  he  removed  with  Dr.  Junkin  to  Miami  University,  O.,  where  he 
had  been  called  to  the  department  of  Latin,  and  subsequently  Modern 
History  was  added  to  his  work. 

"  In  the  Spring  of  1851  he  was  licensed  to  preach  the  Gospel,  and 
from  September  of  next  year  he  taught  Greek  and  Hebrew  in  a 
theological  school  which  had  a  short  existence  in  Cincinnati.  Having 
been  elected  to  the  Professorship  of  Latin  and  History  at  Princeton, 
he  returned  to  that  place  in  the  Spring  of  1853.  Upon  the  resignation 
of  Dr.  Carnahan  and  the  election  of  Dr.  McLean  to  the  presidency, 
several  changes  were  made  in  the  faculty  and  Dr.  Moffat  was  transferred 
to  the  Chair  of  Greek,  which  he  held  for  a  period  of  seven  years, 
retaining  still  the  lectureship  of  history  until  a  professor  was  appointed 
to  that  department.  In  1861  he  was  elected  by  the  General  Assembly 
to  the  Chair  of  Church  History  in  the  Theological  Seminary  at 
Princeton."  With  Church  History  he  retained  Greek  Literary  History 
until  1877.  Having  thus  as  briefly  as  possible  outlined  the  career  of 
Professor  Moffat,  let  us  now  turn  our  attention  to  him  as  a  poet. 
After  a  careful  perusal  of  his  poetical  works,  we  unhesitatingly 
pronounce  his  right  to  take  a  high  rank  not  only  among  Scottish- 
American  poets  but  among  the  poets  of  America.  The  principal 
features  of  his  poetry  are  a  graceful  and  melodious  versification,  a 
purity  of  language,  the  originality  and  perfect  justness  of  his  reflections, 
and  a  contemplative  seriousness  that  reminds  us  of  the  meditative 
pathos  of  Wordsworth.  His  muse  has  no  eye  for  frivolity  ;  to  her 
"  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest,"  and  we  have  not  seen  even  among  his 
earlier  and  shorter  pieces  any  absence  of  that  stately  dignity  which  is 
such  a  characteristic  of  the  work  of  his  mature  years.  Of  his  many 
published  volumes  the  first  of  a  poetical  kind  published  in  this  country 
and  entitled  "A  Rhyme  of  the  North  Countrie,"  (Cincinnati,  1847), 
the  prelude  to  the  principal  i>oem  in  the  work  gives  us  a  key  at  once 
to  the  mainspring  of  his  poetic  feelings — the  love  of  the  fatherland, 
which  he  thus  apostrophises  : 


PKOF.  JAMES  C.  MOFFA  T.  49 

Wild  land  of  poesy,  when  free 
From  daily  cares  to  youth  and  thee 
My  thoughts  return,  what  visions  lie 
Like  evening  clouds  before  my  eye  ! 
The  winding  stream,  the  mountain  glen 
And  sunny  lawn  appear  again  ; 
While  every  spot  its  legend  brings 
Of  love  and  past  beloved  things. 

The  prelude  introduces  to  us  the  story  of  the  heir  of  a  Scottish 
house  whose  worldly  circumstances  have  been  reduced,  but  who  wins 
the  love  of  a  high-born  lady,  and  in  a  heroic  endeavor  to  win  fortune 
and  fame,  undertakes  the  command  of  an  expedition  to  the  Polar 
regions.  Years  pass  and  no  news  of  the  hero  until  a  wandering  sailor 
tells  the  story  of  the  finding  of  a  lost  ship  and  a  frozen  crew  in  the 
northern  seas.  The  descriptive  passages  in  the  work  are  particularly 
fine,  the  versification  elegant  and  melodious.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
hero's  last  look  at  the  home  of  his  beloved: 

The  moon  is  on  the  eastern  height 

His  silver  on  the  seas, 
But  fairer  to  the  poet's  sight 
The  glimmering  of  that  humble  light 

Among  the  ancient  trees  ; 
For  it  has  shone  on  one  possessed 

Of  human  life's  most  envied  boon 
And  prized  more  dearly  to  his  breast 

Than  all  the  rest  beneath  the  moon  ; 
And  at  this  lovely  place  and  hour 
When  nothing  but  that  ancient  tower 

Upon  the  wooded  steeps  above 
Can  thought  of  human  life  impart, 
Its  gentle  rays  come  on  his  heart 

Like  messengers  of  love. 

The  description  of  the  Polar  regions,  the  attitudes  of  the  frozen 
crew,  with  the  accompan)ing  weird  natural  phenomena,  are  admirable 
examples  of  invention  and  graphic  description  to  which  no  brief  selec- 
tion could  give  an  adequate  illustration.  We  pass,  however,  to  notice 
his  happy  faculty  of  writing  short  poems,  chiefly  of  a  moral  or  didactic 
kind.  They  embrace  a  variety  of  subjects,  but  the  most  striking  are 
those  which  contain  a  survey  of  the  beautiful  in  nature ;  a  subject  with 
which  he  ever  links  a  broad  human  sympathy.  As  an  illustration  of 
this  let  us  quote  a  little  poem  which  he  composed  during  a  visit  to 
Europe  immediately  after  the  Franco-German  war : 


50  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


TO  THE  RHINE  AT  COLOGNE. 


We've  met,  old  Rhine,  among  the  hills. 

And  thou  wast  young  and  playful  then, 
Disporting  with  the  wanton  rills 

And  rushing  wild  from  glen  to  glen. 

I've  met  thee  in  a  fuller  stream, 

Where  still  the  haughty  Alps  arose, 
Flowing  in  majesty  supreme, 

And  gathering  tribute  from  their  snows. 

When  brooks  with  loud  complaining  din, 

Harassed  and  tortured  in  the  race. 
Through  rocks  and  gorge,  o'er  ledge  and  lin. 

Sought  refuge  in  thy  strong  embrace. 

And  here,  in  thy  maturer  age. 

In  tranquil  force  and  grandeur  spread, 
Conferring  traffic's  heritage 

Upon  the  lands  thy  floods  have  made, 

Diffusing  far  on  every  hand. 

Thy  gifts  and  energies  benign, 
I  bow  before  thy  wide  command. 

And  hail  thee  monarch,  mighty  Rhine. 

So  may  the  people,  through  whose  coasts 

Thy  far-assembled  waters  wind, 
Their  strong  but  long-divided  hosts. 

Of  honest  worth  and  fertile  mind. 

Endowed  with  learning's  richest  dower. 

Harmoniously  at  length  combine 
Into  one  vast  benignant  power. 

As  thou  art  here,  imperial  Rhine. 

Many  of  the  professor's  short  poems  are  of  a  religious  kind,  and  as 
such  display  an  abiding  faith  in  God's  goodness  to  men.  "A  Cry  in 
Battle  "  may  be  taken  as  a  specimen  of  this: 

A  CRY  IN  BATTLE. 


There  is  a  war  which  I  must  wage, 

A  victory  I  must  win  ; 
A  fiend  has  cast  the  mortal  gage. 

And  dares  me  from  within. 


PROF.  JAMES  C.  MOFFA  T.  51 

His  hate  is  vigilant  and  keen, 

His  forces  manifold  ; 
His  strategy  is  broad,  unseen, 

His  charge  sustained  and  bold. 

Insidious  craft  have  I  to  meet, 

Whose  arts  deceive  the  eye  ; 
To  fight  is  to  provoke  defeat, 

Yet  I  must  win  or  die. 

Great  Son  of  God,  whose  piercing  glance 

Through  all  designs  can  see, 
My  hope  for  victory  in  defence 

I  rest  alone  on  thee. 

Again,  many  of  his  short  poems  lake  a  lyrical  form,  and  of  these  his 
Tamers  of  the  Ground  "  is  probably  the  most  widely  known. 

TAMERS  OF  THE  GROUND. 


There  is  conquest  of  force  in  taming  the  horse 

Till  he  brooks  to  be  driven  and  bound, 
But  prouder  by  far  the  victories  are 

Of  the  men  who  tame  the  ground — 
Who  tame  the  ground  and  its  wilful  powers, 

And  determine  the  work  it  must  do. 
Till  it  leaves  its  own,  and  executes  ours. 

With  obedience  docile  and  true. 

For  they  are  true  workers  together  with  God, 

In  maturing  the  earth  to  his  plan. 
And  in  teaching  her  dull  and  unmeaning  sod 

To  glow  with  the  thinking  of  man — 
Who  compel  her  rude  life  to  surrender  the  wold, 

The  marsh  and  the  jungle  to  yield 
To  him  who  can  out  of  her  deserts  unfold 

The  wealth  of  the  fruit-bearing  field. 

Delights  there  may  be  on  the  restless  sea, 

Though  treacherous,  barren  and  bare  ; 
But  the  grateful  land  ever  blesses  the  hand 

That  tends  it  with  wi.sdom  and  care. 
Then  health  to  the  heroes,  who  tame  the  ground, 

And  hold  ii  in  bountiful  thrall. 
For  they  lap  the  earth  with  their  conquests  around 

Enriching,  benignant  to  all. 


S2  SCOTTISH  POETS  TN  AMERICA. 

The  greatest,  however,  of  the  learned  professor's  poems  is  "Alvvyn: 
A  Romance  of  Study,"  published  by  Messrs.  Anson  D.  F.  Randolph 
&  Co.,  of  this  city,  in  1875.  It  is  a  lengthy  work  of  seven  cantos, 
written  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  deals  chiefly  in  an  analysis  of 
the  mind  of  a  student  passing  through  the  various  studies  of  the 
acquired  knowledge  of  the  ages.  This  subject,  simple  as  it  may 
appear,  opens  a  wonderful  panorama  of  facts  and  fancies,  which  pass 
transfigured  before  the  intellectual  eye,  and  illustrate  not  only  the 
vast  scholarship  of  the  author  but  his  intimate  knowledge  of  natural 
phenomena.  The  endless  array  of  pictures  that  pass  before  us  are 
drawn  from  every  conceivable  source,  from  the  lovely  grandeur  of  far- 
spreading  seas,  from  the  wild  sublimity  of  mountains,  from  the  shroud- 
ed stillness  of  the  white  North,  from  the  dazzling  brilliancy  of  tropical 
forests,  from  the  heart  of  man  and  from  all  animate  nature.  The  effect 
of  each  new  experience  of  observation  is  finely  pointed  out  in  the 
growing  intellectual  power  of  the  hero  of  the  poem,  and  the  incentive 
to  study  and  a  true  conception  of  the  power  of  knowledge  with  the 
highest  reverence  and  faith  in  revealed  religion,  may  be  gathered  as 
the  general  effect  of  the  whole  work.  Indeed  the  religious  sentiment 
is  ever  held,  and  justly  so,  as  the  highest  attribute  of  man.  The  effect 
of  forests  in  this  sentiment  is  grandly  expressed  in  the  first  canto: 


And  much  he  sought  the  forest  dense  and  old, 
A  strange  unhuman  charm  resided  there  ; 

And  in  the  sombre  twilight,  damp  and  cold, 
Which  bade  the  venturous  foot  of  man  forbear, 
He  found  attractions  such  as  dangers  wear. 

An  awful  thought  that  the  Almighty  God, 

Such  as  he  reigned  ere  man  was  made,  and  ere 

Christ  was  revealed,  still  had  his  dread  abode, 

In  these  old  shades,  to  him  was  like  a  wizard's  rod. 

Majestic  trees,  earth's  ancient  garniture, 
Primeval  forests,  which  so  fondly  cling 

To  the  wild  places,  which  your  life  secure 
From  the  destrtjying  enemy,  ye  bring 
Conceptions  of  creation's  early  spring. 

Ere  man's  viccgerency  had  yet  begun. 

And  when  in  herb  and  stream  and  living  thing. 

In  heat  and  cold  and  cloud  and  golden  sun 

God  solitary  reigned  and  all  his  will  was  done. 


PROF.  JAMES  C.  MOFFA  T.  53 

Not  only  does  this  intimacy  with  nature  form  one  of  the  chiefest 
beauties  of  the  work,  but  through  this  quahty  we  are  led  to  a  higher 
appreciation  of  such  men  of  eminence,  whose  works  are  touched  upon 
in  this  masterly  poem.  Even  when  we  cannot  follow  the  learned 
professor  into  his  perfect  knowledge  of  the  work  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  poets  and  philosojihers  we  feel  a  closer  intimacy  with  them 
after  seeing  the  kaleidoscojjic  reflex  of  their  works  such  as  is  here 
presented  on  every  hand.     Take  Cicero  for  instance  : 

"Most  fertile  genius  of  the  Roman  name, 

Whose  glowing  tones  of  eloquence  bestow 

But  half  thy  green  inheritance  of  fame  ; 

Pure  statesman  hero,  toiling  to  reclaim 

A  sinking  countr)'  and  a  vicious  age, 

Who  lived  a  life  scarce  faction  dared  to  blame, 

And  nobly  died  to  stem  the  tyrant's  rage — 

Hail  freedom's  martyr,  hail  benign  eclectic  sage  !" 

If  space  permitted,  we  would  be  pleased  to  analyze  this  poem  to  its 
close,  but  we  can  only  add  that  as  a  whole  it  is  one  of  most  remarkable 
ever  published  in  America.  In  finish  of  versification  it  certainly  has 
no  superior.  It  gives  added  sanction  and  stability  to  the  power  of 
knowledge  and  to  the  faith  and  practice  of  true  religion  as  constituting 
the  highest  law  of  the  moral  universe. 

Besides  his  poetical  works,  Prof.  Moffat  is  the  author  of  a  Life  of 
Dr.  Chalmers,  published  in  Cincinnati,  1853;  Introduction  to  the 
Study  of  /Kesthetics,  1856;  Comparative  History  of  Religions,  2  vols., 
187 1-3;  Song  and  Scenery,  or  a  Summer  Ramble  in  Scotland,  1S74; 
Church  History  in  Brief,  1885;  and  he  has  contributed  about  seventy 
historical  articles  to  the  Princeton  Review  and  other  periodicals.  In 
conclusion,  we  cannot  close  our  brief  comments  on  the  poet-professor 
without  alluding  to  the  exalted  estimate  in  which  he  is  held  as  a  man. 
His  pure  and  noble  life  carries  with  it  the  royal  reward  of  a  heart  still 
sweet  and  young.  The  shepherd's  boy  with  the  keen  eye  and  the  bright 
smile  is  still  there;  the  journeymen  printer,  with  the  quick  hand  and 
the  kind  word  for  a  fellow  workman,  is  still  there.  Add  to  this  the 
talented  scholarly  jirofessor,  the  profound  theologian;  and  through 
this  combination  of  manly  and  noble  (pialities,  the  light  of  poesy 
shines  as  sunshine  among  the  forest  leaves,  blessing  and  beautifying 
the  whole. 


HEW    AINSLIE. 

His  life  was  gentle;  and  the  elements 

So  mixed  in  him,  that  nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world  "this  luas  a  man.' 

Hew  AiNSLiE  is  entitled  to  a  prominent  place  among  Scottish- 
American  poets.  Early  imbued  with  a  taste  for  the  ballad  and  song 
literature  of  his  country,  he  contributed  much  to  it  that  was  both 
valuable  and  beautiful,  and  his  name  shall  descend  to  posterity 
enshrined  among  the  galaxy  of  sweet  singers  who  have  made  the  land 
of  the  mountain  and  the  flood  famous  among  nations  as  a  land  of 
poetry  and  song.  Hew  Ainslie  was  born  at  Bargeny  Mains,  in  the 
parish  of  Dailly,  Ayrshire,  on  the  fifth  of  April,  1792.  His  father  at  the 
time  held  a  responsible  position  on  the  estate  of  Sir  Hew  Dalrymple, 
and,  being  in  possession  of  sufficient  means,  resolved  upon  giving  his 
son  a  better  education  than  that  usually  accorded  to  boys  in  Scotland 
at  that  date,  A  private  tutor  was  accordingly  procured,  who  prepared 
him  in  the  elementary  branches  of  study  at  home,  after  which  he  was 
sent  to  the  parish  school  at  Ballantrae,  and  later  on  to  the  Ayr  Acade- 
my. He  remained  at  the  latter  place  until  he  reached  his  fourteenth 
year,  when  failing  health  compelled  him  to  discontinue  his  studies  and 
return  home.  Gen.  James  Grant  Wilson,  in  his  excellent  work,  "  The 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland,"  tells  us  that  "  Sir  Hew  was  at  this  time 
engaged  in  an  extensive  plan  for  the  improvement  of  his  estate,  under 
the  direction  of  the  celebrated  landscape  gardener,  White,  and  a 
number  of  young  men  from  the  South.  Young  Ainslie  joined  this 
company,  as  he  says,  *  to  harden  my  constitution  and  check  my  over- 
growth. Among  my  planting  companions  I  found  a  number  of 
intelligent  young  men,  who  had  got  up  in  a  large  granary  a  private 
theatre,  where  they  occasionally  performed  for  the  amusement  of  the 
neighborhood  the  'Gentle  Shei)hcrd,'  '  Douglas,'  etc.,  and  in  due  lime 
I  was,  to  my  great  joy,  found  tall  enough,  lassie-looking  enough,  and 
flippant  enough   to  take  the  part  of  the  pert   'Jenny;'    and  the  first 


HE  IV  AINSLIE.  55 


relish  I  got  for  anything  like  sentimental  song  was  from  learning  and 
singing  the  songs  in  that  pastoral — an  Id  ballads  that  my  mother  sung — 
and  she  sung  many  and  sang  them  well — having  been  all  the  poetry  I 
cared  for.  For  three  years,  ^\hich  was  uj)  to  the  time  we  removed  to 
Roslin,  I  remained  in  this  employment,  accpiiring  a  tough,  sound  con- 
stitution, and  at  the  same  time  some  knowledge  of  nursery  and  floral 
culture."  Shortly  after  this  however  he  was  sent  to  Glasgow,  where 
he  entered  upon  the  study  of  law,  but  this  proving  too  uncongenial  an 
occupation  for  one  possessing  his  temperament,  he  soon  resigned  his 
position  and  returned  to  his  home.  Another  situation  was  procured 
for  him  in  the  Register  House,  Edinburgh,  and  here  he  performed  his 
duties  faithfully  for  a  number  of  years.  He  also  acted  for  some  time 
as  the  amanuensis  of  the  celebrated  Professor  Dugald  Stewart.  At 
the  age  of  twenty  he  married,  and  ten  years  later,  finding  that  his  salary 
was  inadequate  for  the  maintenance  of  his  family,  he  resolved  to 
emigrate  to  America.  He  certainly  expected  that  he  would  better 
his  condition  by  coming  to  this  country,  and  yet  it  was  with  a  very 
sorrowful  heart  that  he  bade  farewell  to  his  native  land. 

THE  LAST  LOOK  OF  HOME. 


Our  sail  has  ta'en  the  blast, 
Our  pennant's  to  the  sea, 

And  the  waters  widen  fast 
'Twixt  the  fatherland  and  me. 

Then,  Scotland,  fare  thee  well — 
There's  a  sorrow  in  that  word 

This  aching  heart  could  tell, 
But  words  never  shall  record. 

The  heart  should  make  us  veil 
From  the  heart's  elected  few — 

Our  sorrows  when  we  ail — 
Would  we  have  them  suffer  too? 

No,  the  parting  hour  is  past  ; 

Let  its  memory  be  brief  ; 
When  we  monument  our  joys 

We  should  sepulchre  our  grief. 

Now  yon  misty  mountains  fail, 
As  the  breezes  give  us  speed — 

On,  my  spirit,  with  our  sail, 
There's  a  brighter  land  ahead. 


56  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


There  are  wailings  on  the  wind, 

There  are  murmurs  on  the  sea, 
But  the  fates  ne'er  proved  unkind 

Till  they  parted  home  and  me. 

He  arrived  here  on  the  twenty-second  of  July  1822,  and  shortly 
afterwards  purchased  a  small  farm  at  Hoosick,  Rensselaer  County, 
N.  Y.  This  proved  an  unwise  speculation  for  him  however,  and  after 
struggling  with  it  for  nearly  three  years,  he  was  glad  to  retire  from  it. 
Then  Robert  Owen's  settlement  at  New  Harmony,  Ind.,  was  tried  and 
pronounced  a  failure.  A  few  years  later  he  removed  to  Cincinnati, 
where  he  entered  into  partnership  with  Messrs.  Price  &  Wood, 
brewers,  and  henceforth  his  lot  may  be  said  to  have  fallen  in  pleasant 
places.  Success  followed  nearly  all  his  future  movements,  and,  being 
prosperous,  he  was  happy  and  contented.  But  amidst  this  prosperity 
his  thoughts  would  ever  turn  to  scenes  of  bygone  days,  and  he  would 
find  time  to  sing  of 

THE  LADS  AN'  THE  LAND  FAR  AWA'. 


When  I  think  on  the  lads  an'  the  land  I  ha'e  left, 
An'  how  love  has  been  lifted,  an'  friendship  been  reft; 
How  the  hinnie  o'  hope  has  been  jumbled  wi'  ga', 
Then  I  sigh  for  the  lads  an'  the  land  far  awa'. 

When  I  think  on  the  days  o'  delight  we  ha'e  seen, 
When  the  flame  o'  the  spirit  would  spark  in  the  een  ; 
Then  I  say,  as  in  sorrow  I  think  o'  ye  a'. 
Where  will  I  find  hearts  like  the  hearts  far  awa  ? 

When  I  think  on  the  nights  we  ha'e  spent  hand  in  hand, 
Wi'  mirth  for  our  sowther,  and  friendship  our  band, 
This  world  gets  dark,  but  ilk  night  has  a  daw'  ! 
And  I  yet  may  rejoice  in  the  land  far  awa'  ! 

In  1864  Mr.  Ainslie  resolved  to  pay  a  visit  to  Scotland.  With  what 
eagerness  and  joy  he  crossed  the  Atlantic  for  this  purpose,  may  be 
judged  by  the  following  lines,  entitled  "A  Hameward  Sang."  His 
love  for  Scotland  must  indeed  have  been  stamped  very  deeply  on  his 
heart  when,  on  nearing  it  after  an  absence  of  over  forty  years,  his 
imagination  gave  him  the  impression  that  the  trees  seemed  to  look 
upon  him  with  fond  recognition,  while  even  the  very  brutes  had  a 
social  look  about  them  and  seemed  to  welcome  him  back  to  his  early 
home. 


I/EIV  AINSLIE.  57 


A  HAMEWARD  SANG. 


Each  whirl  o'  the  wheel. 

Each  step  brings  mc  nearer 
The  hamc  o'  my  youth — 

Every  object  grows  dearer, 
The  hills  and  the  huts, 

The  trees  on  that  green, 
Losh  !  they  glour  in  my  face 

Like  some  kindly  auld  fricn'. 

E'en  the  brutes  they  look  social, 

As  gif  they  would  crack  ; 
And  the  sang  o'  the  bird 

Seems  to  welcome  me  back. 
Oh,  dear  to  our  hearts 

Is  the  hand  that  first  fed  us, 
An'  dear  is  the  land 

An'  the'cottage.that  bred  us. 

An'  dear  are  the  comrades 

Wi'  whom  we  once  sported; 
But  dearer  the  maiden 

Whose  love  we  first  courted. 
Joy's  image  may  perish. 

E'en  grief  die  away  ; 
But  the  scenes  o'  our  youth 

Are  recorded  for  aye. 

He  remained  for  some  years  in  Scotland  and  on  the  continent, 
enjoying  the  friendship  of  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  letters  of 
the  time.  Returning  to  America  he  took  up  his  abode  permanently 
with  his  eldest  son  George,  at  Louisville,  Ky.  Mr.  Ainslie  was  a  poet 
in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word.  His  love  for  Scotland  no  doubt 
stimulated  his  muse  to  sing  forth  her  praises  in  songs  which  will  ever 
retain  a  place  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  but  apart  from  this  he 
has  left  us  numerous  ballads  and  lyrical  pieces  which  we  would  not 
willingly  let  die.  Many  of  these  are  of  a  very  pathetic  nature,  and,  in 
addition  to  their  being  very  beautiful,  they  contain  excellent  senti- 
ments expressed  in  the  simplest  of  words.     Take  for  instance  his 

DOWIE  IN  THE  HINT  0'  HAIRST. 


It's  dowie  in  the  hint  o'  hairst, 

At  the  wa'-gang  o'  the  swallow, 
When  the  wind  grows  cauld,  and  the  burns  grow  bauld, 

And  the  wuds  are  hingin'  yellow  ; 


58  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

But  oh,  it's  dowier  far  to  see 

The  wa'-gang  o'  her  the  heart  gangs  wi', 

The  dead-set  o'  a  shinin'  e'e — 

That  darkens  the  weary  warld  on  thee. 

There  was  mickle  love  atween  us  twa — 

Oh,  twa  could  ne'er  be  fonder  ; 
And  the  thing  on  yird  was  never  made, 

That  could  ha'e  gart  us  sunder. 
But  the  way  o'  Heaven's  aboon  a'  ken, 
And  we  maun  bear  what  it  likes  to  sen' — 
It's  comfort,  though,  to  weary  men, 
That  the  warst  o'  this  warld's  waes  maun  en'. 

There's  mony  things  that  come  and  gae, 

Just  kent,  and  just  forgotten  ; 
And  the  flowers  that  busk  a  bonnie  brae, 

Gin  anither  year  lie  rotten. 
But  the  last  look  o'  that  lovely  e'e, 
And  the  dying  grip  she  ga'e  to  me, 
They're  settled  like  eternitie — 
Oh,  Mary  !  that  I  were  wi'  thee. 

"Perhaps,"  says  Mr.  Thomas  C.  Latto,  "the  finest  of  Hew  Ainslie's 
songs  is  the  '  Bourocks  o'  Bargeny,'  which  I  transcribe  from  the  manu- 
script of  the  good  old  Bard,  now  lying  on  my  desk.  He  copied  it  for 
me  at  my  request  October  i6,  1868,  and  felt  much  gratified  when  I 
expressed  my  opinion  that,  though  the  theme  had  been  attempted 
several  times,  notably  by  Robert  Chambers  in  '  Young  Randal '  and  by 
Robert  Nicoll  in  *  Bonny  Bessie  Lee,'  it  had  never  been  handled  with 
greater  delicacy  and  success  than  in  his  own  simple  lines.  The  Bou- 
rocks (/.  e.  Cotter  houses)  o'  Bargeny  is  indeed  a  gem. 

'I  left  ye,  Jeanie,  bloomin'  fair 

'Mang  the  bourocks  o'  Bargeny, 
I've  found  ye  on  the  banks  o'  Ayr, 

But  sair  ye're  alter'd,  Jeanie. 
I  left  ye  like  the  wanton  lamb 

That  plays  'mang  Hadyed's  heather  ; 
I've  found  ye  noo  a  sober  dame — 

A  wife  and  eke  a  mither. 

I  left  ye  'mang  the  leaves  sae  green 

In  rustic  weed  befittin'; 
I've  found  ye  buskit  like  a  queen 

In  painted  chaumcr  sittin". 
Ye're  fairer,  statelier,  I  can  see  ; 

Yc'rc  wiser  nae  dou't  Jeanie, 
But  oh  !  I  rather  met  wi'  thee 

'Mang  the  bourocks  o'  Bargeny  ! '  "         .  * 


HEW  A  IN  SUE.  59 


In  1822  Mr,  Ainslic  published  his  first  work,  viz.  :  "A  pilgrimage  to 
the  Land  of  Burns."  Several  large  editions  of  this  work  have  been 
issued  and  sold.  In  1855  he  published  "Scottish  Songs,  Ballads  and 
Poems,"  and  this  also  received  a  cordial  welcome  from  the  public  and 
press.  Three  different  editions  of  his  collected  writings  have  since 
been  publshed  and  disposed  of.  Many  of  his  earlier  poems  are  to  be 
found  in  the  publications  of  the  Messrs.  Chambers,  of  Edinburgh, 
and  in  "  Whistle  Binkie,"  "Gems  of  Scottish  Song,"  etc.  Mr.  Ainslie 
died  at  Louisville,  Ky. ,  at  the  venerable  age  of  eighty-six.  From  an 
obituary  notice  which  appeared  a  few  days  after  his  death  written  by 
Mr.  Latto,  we  clip  the  following  : — "  A  truer  Scotchman  than  Hew 
Ainslie  never  trod  the  heather.  In  person  tall,  stately  and  agile  even 
in  advanced  years,  his  face  was  the  index  of  his  character — frank,  open, 
honest,  genial  and  manly.  He  looked  the  personification  of  Wallace 
wight  or  Bruce  the  bold,  and  in  a  personal  encounter  he  would  have 
been  a  match  for  half  a  dozen  ordinary  men.  His  head  was  beautifully 
set  on  his  square  shoulders  and  his  broad,  lofty  brow  betokened  a  rare 
and  transcendent  genius.  At  one  of  the  meetings  of  the  Burns  Club, 
Brooklyn,  E,  D.,  it  was  stated  that  Ainslie,  before  he  left  Scotland  for 
the  first  time,  had  had  the  honor  of  kissing  Burns'  '  bonny  Jean'  by  the 
banks  of  the  Nith,  on  the  spot  where  he  had  composed  one  of  his 
deathless  lyrics.  Full  of  years  and  of  honors,  it  must  be  consoling  to 
his  family  in  their  bereavement  to  know  that  his  long  life  closed  so 
peacefully,  but  never  can  his  place  be  filled  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who,  like  the  writer,  knew  and  loved  him." 


HON.    WILLIAM     CANT    STUROC. 

The  general  voice 
Sounds  him  for  courtesy,  behavior,  language, 
And  every  fair  demeanor,  an  example  ; 
Titles  of  honor  add  not  to  his  worth, 
Who  is  himself  an  honor  to  his  title. 

William  Cant  Sturoc  was  born  in  the  old  town  of  Arbroath  in  the 
year  1822.  He  was  the  twelfth  child  of  a  family  of  thirteen,  and  as  his 
parents'  circumstances  in  life  were  not  of  the  best,  it  became  neces- 
sary to  put  him  to  work  at  a  comparatively  early  age.  His  education 
therefore  while  not  altogether  neglected,  can  truly  be  said  to  have  been 
of  a  limited  description.  During  the  short  time  however  that  he 
remained  at  school  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  he  was  credited  with 
being  "  a  persistent,  dogged,  unconquerable  boy,  with  a  sharp,  inquisi- 
tive turn  of  mind,  bold  and  self-reliant,  and  a  leader  among  his  school- 
mates." He  learned  the  trade  of  a  whcel-wright  with  his  father,  but  so 
determined  was  he  during  those  early  years  of  his  life  to  better  his  ed- 
ucation and  to  push  himself  forward  in  the  world,  that  before  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  twenty  he  had  read  through  and  studied  as  carefully 
as  possible  nearly  all  of  the  English  classics.  To-day  he  can  pause 
and  look  back  with  complacent  satisfaction  on  the  heroic  and  laud- 
able struggles  of  his  youth,  and  he  inay  feel  proud  of  the  fact  that  apart 
from  the  honors  which  his  merits  have  won  for  him  in  various  fields, 
he  now  stands  prominently  before  the  world  as  one  of  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  the  self-made  men  of  the  present  century.  In  1846  he  resolved 
to  emigrate  to  Canada.  He  arrived  in  Montreal  in  May  of  that  year, 
and  while  supporting  himself  during  the  succeeding  four  years  by  his 
trade,  eagerly  embraced  every  opportunity  that  presented  itself  whereby 
he  could  add  to  the  knowledge  which  he  had  already  acquired.  He 
became  a  frequent  contributor  to  Canadian  newspapers  and  magazines, 
and  many  of  his  articles  written  at  this  date  show  that  he  possessed 


HON.    WILLIAM  CANT  STUROC.  6i 


considerable  literary  ability,  besides  a  sound  discriminating  judgment. 

Life  in  Canada  however  soon  failed  to  please  him.    In  1 850  he  crossed 
over  to  the  United  States  and  took  up  his  abode  in  Sunapee,  N.  H. 

Here  he  became  ac(iuainted  with  the  late  Hon.  Edmund  Burke,  and 
by  him  was  induced  to  commence  the  study  of  law.     Zealously  apply- 
ing himself  to  his  new  task  he  was  rewarded  in  1855  by  being  admitted 
to  practice  as  an  attorney  in  the  courts  of  New   Hampshire.     Since 
that  time  he  has  made  Sunapee  his  home,  and  while  attaining  the  high- 
est degree  of  eminence  in  his  profession,  has  also  acquired  an  honor- 
able reputation  as  an  orator,  a  poet  and  one  of  the  ablest  statesmen  in 
New  Hampshire.     By  his  gentle  demeanor,  his  genial  disposition  and 
his  numerous  acts  of  Christian  kindness  he  has  gained  the  respect  and 
the  love  of  all  classes.     His  home  and  surroundings  are  thus  described 
in  a  recent  issue  of  the  Granite  Monthly  :— "Along  the  banks  of  Sugar 
River,  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  crowning  surrounding  hillsides 
cluster  fifty  or  sixty  dwelling-houses,  interspersed  among  which  rise 
the  spires  of  three  church  edifices,  the  roofs  of  a  hotel,  post-office,  five 
stores,  school-house,  and  the  town  hall.     Some  of  the  residences  are 
elegant  and  commodious  and  compare  favorably  with  the  same  class 
of  structures  in  larger  villages.     The  oldest  and  one  of  the  best-looking 
dwelling-houses  is  the  one  owned  by  the  Hon.  William  Cant  Sturoc, 
in  the  heart  of  the  village.     We  found  that  gentleman  at  home  in  his 
library,  a  man  fifty-seven  years  of  age,  looking  what  he  is,  the  educated, 
hospitable,  ardent  Scotchman.     The  blood  of  Bruce  and  Wallace  is 
in  his  veins,  the  fire  of  Burns  and  Scott  in  his  brain.     Next  to  his 
adopted  country  he  loves  Scotland,  and  he  has  often  breathed  that 
affection  in  exquisite  verse.     It  is  a  pleasure  to  hear  him  read  Burns 
and  other  Scotch  poets.     As  a  lawyer  and  politician,  he  has  no  little 
distinction.     He  was  the  democratic  candidate  for  State  Senator  in 
district  number  ten  in  1876.     His  proudest  title,  however,  is  that  of  the 
'  Bard  of  Sunapee.' "     The   following  is  his  well-known  descriptive 
poem  entitled 

LAKE  SUNAPEE. 


Once  more,  my  muse  !  from  rest  of  many  a  )'ear, 
Come  forth  again  and  sing,  as  oft  of  yore  ; 

Now  lead  my  steps  to  where  the  crags  appear 
In  silent  grandeur,  by  the  rugged  shore, 

That  skirts  the  margin  of  thy  waters  free, 

Lake  of  my  mountain  home,  loved  Sunapee  ! 


62  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Meet  invocation  !  to  the  pregnant  scene, 
Where  long  ere  yet  the  white  man's  foot  did  roam, 

Strode  wild  and  free  the  daring  Algonquin  ; 
And  where,  perchance  the  stately  Metacom 

Inspired  his  braves,  with  that  poetic  strain 

Which  cheer'd  the  Wampanoags,  but  cheer'd  in  vain. 

Clear  mountain  mirror  !  who  can  tell  but  thou 
Hast  borne  the  red  man,  in  his  light  canoe 

As  fleetly  on  thj'  bosom  as  e'en  now 

Thou  bear'st  the  pale  face  o'er  thy  waters  blue  ; 

And  who  can  tell  but  nature's  children  then 

Were  rich  and  happy  as  the  mass  of  men  ? 

Sweet  Granite  "Katrine"  of  this  mountain  land  ! 

Oh  jewel  set  amid  a  scene  so  fair  ! 
Kearsage,  Ascutney,  rise  on  either  hand, 

While  Grantham  watches  with  a  lover's  care. 
And  our  dark  "Ben"  to  Croydon  sends  in  glee, 
A  greeting  o'er  thy  silvery  breast.  Lake  Sunapee  ! 

How  grand,  upon  a  moonlit  eve,  to  glide 
Upon  thy  waters,  twixt  the  mountains  high 

And  gaze  within  thy  azure  crystal  tide. 

On  trembling  shadows  of  the  earth  and  sky  ; 

While  all  is  silent,  save  when  trusty  oar 

Awakes  an  echo  from  thy  slumbering  shore. 

Oh,  lovely  lake,  I  would  commune  with  thee  ! 

For  in  thy  presence  naught  of  ill  is  found  ; 
That  cares  which  wed  the  weary  world  to  me, 

May  cease  to  harass  with  their  carking  round. 
And  I  a  while  'midst  Nature's  grandeur  stand. 
On  mount  of  rapture  'twixt  the  sea  and  land. 

For  where  shall  mortals  holier  ground  espy, 

From  which  to  look  where  hope  doth  point  and  gaze. 

Than  from  the  spot  that  speaks  a  Diety, 
In  hoary  accents  of  primeval  praise  ? 

And  where  shall  man  a  purer  altar  find, 

From  which  to  worship  the  Almighty  Mind  ? 

Thy  past  is  curtained  by  as  deep  a  veil 

As  shrouds  the  secrets  which  we  may  not  reach  ; 

And  then,  'twere  wisdom,  when  our  quest  doth  fail. 
To  read  the  lessons  whicli  thou  noiii  dost  teach  ; 

And  in  tliy  face,  on  which  wi;  If)ok  to-daj'. 

Sec  hopes  to  cheer  us  on  our  onward  way. 


HON.    WILLIAM  CANT  STUKOC.  63 

Roll  on,  sweet  lake  !  and  if  perchance  thy  form 
Laves  less  of  earth  than  floods  of  Western  fame  ; 

Yet  still  we  love  thee,  in  the  calm  or  storm, 
And  call  thee  ours  by  many  a  kindly  name. 

No  patriot  heart  but  loves  the  scenes  that  come, 

O'er  memory's  sea  to  breathe  a  tale  of  "Home." 

And  when  the  winter  in  its  frozen  thrall 

Binds  up  thy  locks  in  braids  of  icy  wreath, 
Forget  we  not  thy  cherish'd  name  to  call, 

In  fitting  shadow  of  the  sleep  of  death  ! 
But  morn  shall  dawn  upon  our  sleep,  and  we, 
As  thou  in  spring-time  wake,  sweet  "Sunapec  !" 


Mr.  Sturoc  has  been  an  ardent  and  successful  wooer  of  the  muses  since 
his  earliest  years.  He  has  given  to  the  world  many  excellent  poems 
and  lyrical  pieces,  which  have  been  awarded  the  highest  praise  from 
the  press  and  literary  men  in  general,  but  his  extreme  modesty  and 
unwillingness  to  exhibit  his  talents  in  this  respect  before  the  public, 
has  in  a  great  measure  retarded  his  popularity  as  a  poet,  both  in  America 
and  in  Great  Britain.  "The  little  fugitive  crumbs,"  he  says,  "which  I 
have  cast  carelessly  upon  the  waters  have  been  received  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic  with  more  favor  than  they  really  deserve,  yet,  though 
'owre  the  seas  an'  far  awa',  I  always  take  a  warm  and  hearty  interest  in 
all  that  concerns  Scotland."  There  is  however,  a  notable  difference 
between  his  early  poems  and  those  of  a  more  matured  i)eriod  of  his 
life.  Take  for  instance  one  of  his  pieces  which  appeared  in  the  Glasgow 
Citizen  in  1845.     ^^  begins, 

My  Katie  is  a  winsome  flower, 
As  ever  bloomed  in  cot  or  ha'. 
An'  heaven  forbid  its  dewy  leaves, 
Should  ere  untimely  fade  or  fa,'  etc. 

There  is  hardly  a  line  in  this  i:)roduction  that  is  in  any  way  worthy 
to  stand  beside  the  beautiful  lines  which  he  gave  to  the  world  later  on 
under  the  title  of  "  Mary  "  and  which  we  herewith  append.  An  American 
paper  noticing  this  poem  at  the  time  of  its  first  publication  very  justly 
remarked  that  "  It  stamped  its  author,  not  only  as  a  ripe  scholar,  but  as 
possessing  rare  poetic  gifts." 


64  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


MARY, 


I  saw  a  vision  in  my  boyish  days, 

So  bright,  so  pure,  that  in  my  raptur'd  dreaming, 
Its  tints  of  emerald  and  its  golden  rays 

Had  more  of  heavenly  than  of  earthly  seeming  ; 
The  roseate  valley  and  the  sun-light  mountain 

Alike,  enchanted  as  by  wand  of  fairy, 
Breathed  out  as  from  a  high  and  holy  fountain. 

On  flower  and  breeze,  the  lovely  name  of  Mary. 

That  youthful  vision,  time  has  not  eflfaced, 

But  year  by  year  the  cherish'd  dream  grew  deeper, 
And  memory's  hand,  at  midnight  hour  oft  traced, 

Once  more,  the  faithful  vision  of  the  sleeper  ; 
No  chance  or  change  could  ever  chase  away 

This  idol  thought,  that  o'er  my  life  would  tarry. 
And  lead  me,  in  the  darkest  hours,  to  say — 

"My  better  angel  is  my  hoped-for  Mary." 

The  name  was  fix'd — a  fact  of  fate's  recording — 

And  swayed  by  magic  all  this  single  heart  ; 
The  strange  decree  disdained  a  novel  wording. 

And  would  not  from  my  happy  future  part  ; 
As  bright  'twas  writ,  as  is  the  milky  way — 

The  bow  of  promise  is  a  sky  unstarry — 
That  sheds  its  light  and  shone  with  purest  ray 

Through  cloud  and  tempest  round  the  name  of  Marj'. 

Burns  hymn'd  his  "Mary"  when  her  soul  had  pass'd 

Away  from  earth,  and  all  its  sin  and  sorrow  ; 
But  mine  has  been  the  spirit  that  hath  cast 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  on  each  blessed  morrow  ; 
And  crown'd  at  last,  this  trusting  heart  hath  been, 

With  fruits  of  faith,  that  nought  on  earth  could  vary. 
For  I  have  lived  until  my  eyes  have  seen 

The  vision  real,  in  the  form  of  Mary. 

A  special  feature  of  Mr.  Sturoc's  poetry  is  the  simplicity  of  language 
used  by  him.  He  places  his  thoughts  before  us  in  a  clear  and  concise 
style,  and  his  words,  beautiful  and  appropriate  in  each  instance,  seem 
to  flow  as  naturally  from  him  as  do  the  streams  and  rills  down  the  sides 
of  the  mountains  and  the  glens  of  his  native  land.  Take  the  following 
"  song  "  as  a  specimen  of  this  : 


HON.    WILLIAM  CANT  ST U ROC.  65 

I  kcn'na  gin  the  lanesome  birds. 

When  winter's  snaws  fa'  dreary,  O. 
Forget  their  canty  summer  hames 

In  woods  and  glens  sae  cheery,  O. 

But  weel  I  ken  this  heart  o'  mine, 

Tho'  fortune  gars  me  wander  O, 
Boats  leal  to  ilka  youthfu'  scene 

An'  distance  makes  me  fonder,  O. 

For  in  my  dreams,  by  day  or  nicht, 

Tho'  wealth  and  beauty  bind  me  O, 
I'm  wafted  far  owre  sea  an'  land, 

To  friends  I  left  behind  me  O, 

An'  there  I  see  ilk  wceUkent  face. 

An'  hear  sweet  voices  many  O. 
But  dearest'still  the  smile  and  word 

O'  charming,  winsome  Jenny  O 

In  nearly  all  of  our  author's  poetry  we  find  an  underlying  reference 
and  unquestionable  love  for  the  land  of  his  boyhood. 

This  is  more  to  be  wondered  at  when  we  take  into  consideration  the 
fact  that  it  is  now  more  than  forty  years  since  he  left  Scotland.  Time 
however  has  in  no  way  changed  her  to  him;  and  her  history,  traditions, 
scenery  and  people  are  ever  before  his  mind.  In  some  cases  his  enthusi- 
asm for  the  fatherland  becomes  uncontrollable,  and  his  muse  bursts  forth 
into  patriotic  strains  as  noble  and  as  grand  as  those  which  emanated 
from  Henry  Scott  Riddell  and  others.  The  following  poem,  for  in- 
stance, written  not  very  long  since,  will  always  be  accorded  a  prominent 
place  in  Scottish  minstrelsy  : 

MY  NATIVE  SCOTTISH  HILLS. 


Though  cold  and  bleak  my  native  land, 

Thoughjwint'ry  are  its  looks, 
The  mountains  towering,  dim  and  grand, 

Though  "ice-bound"  are  its  brooks  ; 
Yet  still  my  heart  with  fotvdest  pride. 

And  deepest  paisions  thrills, 
As,  gazing  round  me,  far  and  wide, 

I  miss  my  native  hills  ! 

The  spreading  prairies  of  the  West 
May  yield  their  richest  store  ; 

And  other  tongues  may  call  them  blest, 
And  chant  their  praises  o'er ; 


66  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


But  I  shall  sing,  in  humble  song. 

Of  mountains,  lochs  and  rills — 
The  scenes  my  childhood  dwelt  among — 

My  native  Scottish  hills. 

Oh  native  land  !  Oh  cherished  home, 

I've  sailed  across  the  sea. 
And,  though  my  wandering  steps  may  roam, 

My  heart  still  turns  to  thee  ! 
My  thoughts  and  dreams  are  sweet  and  bright 

With  dew  which  loves  distills  ; 
While  every  gleam  of  golden  light 

Falls  on  the  Scottish  hills. 

And,  when  my  mortal  race  is  run, 

And  earth's  vain  dreams  are  o'er, 
And,  far  beyond  the  setting  sun, 

I  see  the  other  shore — 
Oh,  may  my  resting  place  be  found 

Secure  from  all  life's  ills. 
Some  cheerful  spot  of  hallow'd  ground 

Among  the  Scottish  hills. 

A  sincere  religious  sentiment,  well  worthy  of  note,  also  pervades 
many  of  Mr.  Sturoc's  musings.  However  much  his  public  career  may 
have  brought  him  in  contact  with  the  world  there  is  no  misdoubting 
the  Christianity  of  the  heart  that  can  sing 

So  what  we  have  of  gifts  and  graces  given. 

Are  only  lent  us  for  life's  little  day  ; 
Nor  shall  we  do  the  high  behest  of  heaven 

If  gifts  are  hidden,  or  be  cast  away  ; 
And  whom  the  hand  of  destiny  hath  sealed. 

As  seer  and  singer  for  his  fellows  all, 
'Tis  his  to  scatter  o'er  earth's  fertile  field 

The  seeds  that  drop  at  inspiration's  call 


Then  let  me  sing  !  O  worldlings,  let  me  sing  ! 

Mayhap  my  warblings  with  their  notes  of  cheer 
Will  heal  some  heart  that  cherishes  a  sting 

Or  wake  the  hopeless  from  their  sleep  of  fear  ! 
And  thus  I  give  what  first  to  me  is  given  ; 

My  licart  still  grasping  at  the  good  and  true. 
And  trust  the  rest  to  high  and  holy  heaven. 

Which  measures  doing  by  the  power  to  do. 


HON.    WILLIAM  CANT  STUROC.  67 

The  Manchester  Daily  Mirror  afid  American,  in  an  article  describing 
our  author  says:  "  He  has  many  of  the  elements  of  the  genuine 
orator.  He  is  one  of  the  best  debaters  in  the  legislature — better  than 
a  majority  in  Congress  whose  names  appear  daily  in  the  papers  during 
the  sessions  of  that  body.  He  is  deliberate  in  utterance,  makes  himself 
heard  by  all  tlie  house,  and  speaks  with  earnestness  and  to  the  point. 
In  July,  1867,  he  received  from  Dartmouth  College  the  honorary 
degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  He  holds  a  commission  as  Justice  of  the 
Peace  and  as  Notary  Public  from  the  Governor  of  N.  H.  His  de- 
mocracy is  of  the  Jeffersonian  type  and  his  faith  in  constitutional 
liberty  as  firm  as  the  granite  hills."  Mr.  Sturoc  keeps  up  a  regular 
correspondence  with  his  many  literary  friends,  both  in  this  country 
and  Scotland,  and  frecjuently  receives  a  rhyming  epistle  from  some  of 
liis  poetical  contemporaries.  The  following  brief  but  complimentary 
one  is  by  Mr.  Duncan  MacGregor  Crerar,  and  is  addressed 

"TO   WILLIAM  CANT  STUROC,    ON  RECEIVING  HIS  PORTRAIT." 


My  wishes  warm  I  waft  to  thee, 

Beloved  bard  of  Sunapee  ! 

I  prize,  and  will  as  years  roll  on, 

Perhaps,  dear  friend,  when  thou  art  gone, 

This  welcome  gift,  this  portrait  true 

Of  thee,  ta'en  at  three  score  and  two ; 

Those  kindly  eyes  and  locks  of  gray 

Will  call  up  many  a  byegone  day 

Made  glad  by  letters  charmed  from  thee, 

Belov6d  bard  of  Sunapee  ! 

Heaven  grant  thee  strength  and  spare  thee  long 

To  sing  thy  tunesome  woodland  song. 

Till  dell  and  dingle,  lake  and  corrie. 

Join  in  the  strain  and  sound  thy  glory  ! 

Mr.  Sturoc,  while  getting  on  in  years,  is  still  hale  and  hearty.  His 
intellect  is  as  clear  to-day  as  it  has  been  in  years  gone  by,  and  we  trust 
as  he  gradually  lays  aside  the  cares  of  public  life  that  he  will  continue 
to  charm  us  with  more  of  that  genuine  poetry  which  he  has  already 
produced,  and  which  he  is  still  capable  of  producing. 


WILLIAM    LYLE. 

The  fame  that  a  man  wins  himself,  is  best; 
That  he  may  call  his  own.     Honors  put  on  him 
Make  him  no  more  a  man  than  his  clothes  do, 
Which  are  as  soon  ta'en  off. 

William  Lyle,  whom  the  Dundee  Weekly  News  extols  as  being 
"one  of  the  sweetest  toned  of  Uving  poets  resident  in  America,"  was 
born  at  Edinburgh  in  the  year  1822.  His  father  having  died  at  a 
comparatively  early  age,  the  entire  responsibility  and  care  of  the  boy 
devolved  upon  his  mother,  a  noble  Scottish  woman  who,  with  limited 
means  and  a  sincere  faith  in  God's  goodness,  earnestly  strove  to  per- 
form the  duty  allotted  to  her. 

Our  author  received  the  rudiments  of  his  education  at  the  Lancas- 
terian  school  of  his  native  city,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve  removed  with 
his  mother  to  Glasgow,  where  a  few  years  afterward  he  became 
apprenticed  to  a  potter.  He  was  always  a  bright,  observing  boy,  and 
being  possessed  of  good  common  sense  he  soon  became  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  his  education  was  very  deficient  in  many  respects.  He 
therefore  began  to  apply  himself  diligently  to  study  and  to  the  reading 
of  standard  books.  In  addition  to  this  he  enrolled  himself  as  a  scholar 
in  one  of  the  evening  schools,  and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  he  was  making  rapid  progress  in  the  cultivation  of  his  intel- 
lectual faculties.  He  also  made  rapid  progress  in  learning  the  various 
branches  of  the  trade  at  which  he  was  occupied,  and  as  soon  as  his 
apprenticeship  was  finished  he  readily  obtained  a  position  as  journey- 
man at  a  salary  which  enabled  him  to  better  himself  in  many  ways. 
In  1850  he  became  united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Jessie  VVylie,  third 
daughter  of  Mr.  Robert  Wylie  of  Kincardine  on  the  Forth.  She  was 
an  intt'llij.^ent  and  fascinating  young  lady,  and  her  loving  nature  and 
sweet  companionship  stimulated  him  to  brave,  and  eventually  over- 
come, many  of  the  obstacles  which  beset  his  pathway  in  life  at  the 
time.     She  was  the  first  to  inspire  his  muse,  and  he  has  acknowledged 


WILLIAM  LYLE.  69 


her  worth  and  his  love  for  her  in  many  of  his  finest  pieces.     Under 
the  title  of  "  Queen  Janet,"  he  sings: 

Beside  a  wee  burn  there  stan's  a  wee  cot, 

An'  a  bonny  wee  lassie  in  it  ; 
Gin  the  gowd  were  mine  that  gilds  a  king's  lot, 

I  wad  pairt  wi'  it  a'  this  minute 
If  there  I  raicht  bide  fur  aye  by  the  side 

O'  the  bonny  wee  lassie  in  it. 

Red  roses  speel  roon'  its  auld-fashioned  door, 

Less  sweet  than  the  roses  within  it  ; 
Outside  the  birdies  mak'  sic  an  uproar — 

Inside  is  the  song   o'  the  linnet. 
The  birds  in  the  glen  are  jealous,  I  ken, 

O'  the  bonniest  lassie  in  it. 

Richt  past  it  the  burnie  rins  tae  the  sea— 

Losh  me  !  hoo  my  love  wad  ootrin  it, 
Gin  I  thochther  heart  was  waitin'  for  me, 

Wi'  her  twa  witchin'  een  abune  it. 
The  song  I  wad  sing  wad  make  the  wuds  ring 

An'  fairies  wad  help  me  tae  spin  it. 

Saft  blaw  the  win's  o'  winter's  cauld  day 

Aroon'  that  wee  cot  an'  wha's  in  it ; 
An'  when  its  my  aln,  as  sometime  it  may 

(For  I'll  play  my  best  cards  tae  win  it). 
I'll  sit  mysel'  doon  an'  think  I've  a  crown 

In  the  true  love  of  my  Queen  Janet ! 

In  1862  Mr.  Lyle  was  offered  and  accepted  a  position  in  England, 
and  while  there  published  a  number  of  meritorious  poems  which  com- 
manded a  great  deal  of  attention.  One  in  particular,  of  considerable 
length,  was  entitled  "  The  Grave  of  Three  Hundred,"  and  had  refer- 
ence to  the  great  Barnsley  Mine  disaster.  This  poem  was  published 
in  book  form  and  had  a  very  extensive  sale.  It  was  dedicated  by  per- 
mission to  the  late  Lord  Lytton,  and  copies  were  presented  to  and 
accepted  by  her  majesty  Queen  Victoria.  Some  years  later  our  author 
decided  to  emigrate  to  America.  On  his  arrival  here,  he  took  up  his 
residence  in  Rochester,  N.  Y..  where  he  has  since  remained,  and  where 
he  has  long  held  a  position  of  trust  and  responsibility.  Like  all  other 
Scottish  poets  in  America,  while  upholding  the  dignity  and  grandeur 
of  his  adopted  country,  he  is  intensely  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of 


70  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

his  native  land.  His  whole  soul  is  completely  wrapped  up  in  his  ad- 
miration for  her,  and  he  never  seems  to  tire  of  singing  her  praises. 
Take  the  following  as  a  specimen  of  his  muse  in  this  particular: 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  HEATHER 


Come  sing  me  the  songs  of  old  Scotland, 

If  ye  would  be  merry  awhile, 
And  strike  the  wild  harp  of  her  minstrels, 

If  ye  would  my  sorry  beguile. 
O  chant  the  wild  lays  of  her  heroes, 

Whose  blood  has  baptized  every  vale, 
And  sing  me  the  songs  of  her  martyrs, 

That  oft  lent  a  joy  to  the  gale. 

Hurrah  for  the  land  of  the  heather! 

The  dear  little  land  of  the  North, 
Where  true  hearts  and  brave  ones  together, 

Tell  mankind  what  freedom  is  worth. 

The  earth  is  enriched  with  her  lessons, 

And  time  is  embalming  her  name  : 
Disgrace  never  tarnished  her  tartans, 

Or  mantled  a  brow  with  its  shame. 
Bright  gold  may  not  burst  from  her  valle)-s, 

Nor  silver  be  washed  from  her  streams, 
But  there  is  a  gold  in  her  glory — 

Her  valor  all  silver  outgleams. 

Three  cheers  for  the  land  of  the  heather  ! 

The  dear  little  land  of  the  North, 
Where  true  hearts  and  brave  ones  together 

Tell  mankind  what  freedom  is  worth. 

Through  all  the  archives  of  the  nations, 

'Tis  writ  how  her  fame  has  been  bought, 
Still  wearing  the  chaplet  of  honor 

Wherever  her  claymore  has  fought. 
O,  hearts  from  the  birthplace  of  freedom 

Forget  not  the  soil  ye  have  trod, 
Through  time  and  through  distance  remember 

The  noble  old  land  and  her  God. 

Hurrah  for  the  land  of  the  heather! 

The  dear  little  land  of  the  North, 
Where  true  hearts  and  brave  ones  together 

Tell  mankind  what  freedom  is  worth. 


WILL/AM  LYLE.  71 


Tlie  above  is  but  one  probably  out  of  a  hundred  poems  which  we 
might  mention,  written  by  Mr.  Lyle,  each  of  which  sparkles  with 
references  of  the  warmest  nature  to  Scotland.  Even  a  sprig  of 
heather  sent  to  him  by  a  friend,  calls  forth  the  following  affectionate 
sentiments: 

Bonnie  wcc  sprig  o'  the  dear  purple  hc.Tthcr, 

Fresh  frae  the  auid  iaii'  my  heart  lo'cs  sae  weel  ; 

Twa|cronies  hae  met  when  we've  come  thcgither  ; 
Auld  love  revived  wi'  a  kiss  I  maun  seal. 

Ye  come  like  a  warlock,  wi'  queer  thochts  surroonded 
Ye  bring  tae  my  heart  lang  syne  simmer  days, 

Ere  life's  angry  storms  my  young  dreams  confoonded. 
When  freedom  an'  I  ran  wild  on  the  braes  ! 

Ye  speak  o'  the  ploys  by  the  rock  and  the  river  ; 

Ye  tell  me  o'  frien's  lang  deid  an'  awa  ; 
Ye  mind  me  o'  music  noo  silent  for  ever  ; — 

I  wadna  be  true  if  tears  didna  fa'. 

Puir  withered  stranger,  lang  miles  frae  yer  mithcr, 
Ye  needna  be  ftcyed  though  far  frae  yer  hame  ; 

Fortune  is  kind — ye  ha'e  met  wi'  a  brither, 
Wha  never  looks  cauld  on  ane  o'  yer  name. 

Bide  near  my  heart,  braw  son  o'  the  mountain. 

For  his  sake  wha  sent  ye,  an'  for  yer  ain  ; 
The  bluid  o'  a  Scot  maun  be  cauld  at  the  fountain 

When  he  can  look  on  sic  a  gift  wi'  disdain. 

Yes,  bide  near  my  heart,  an'  aften  ye'll  cheer  mc, 
When  fortune's  hard  thumps  frae  the  warl'  I  dree  ; 

In  fancy  I'll  dream  that  I  hae  a  frien'  near  me, 
Though  your  hame  an'  mine  is  ower  the  wide  sea. 

Bonnie  blue  sprig,  ye'll  be  dawtied  an'  nourished. 

An'  no  ae  strip  frae  yer  plume  shall  be  torn  ; 
Ye'll  keep  the  wish  warm  that  I  hae  long  cherished, 

Tae  see  the  auld  Ian'  whaur  we  twa  were  born. 

They  say  sometimes  the  spirit  will  linger 

Near  the  lo'ed  places  when  life  is  nae  mair  ; — 

If  sae,  can  ye  blame  the  heart  o'  the  singer, 

That  breathes  sic  wish  in  its  sang  an'  its  prayer? 

Mr.  Lyle  is  a  voluminous  writer  of  poetry  besides  being  the  author 
of  a  number  of  tales  and  sketches.  During  the  twelve  years  which  the 
New  York  Scotsman  was  in  existence  scarcely  a  week  elapsed  without 


72  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

a.  new  poem  being  contributed  by  him  to  its  pages.  He  has  already 
composed  material  enough  to  fill  six  large  volumes  and  he  still  con- 
tinues to  write  with  unabated  vigor  and  zeal.  He  is  thus  well  and 
favorably  known  to  the  Scottish  residents  both  in  this  country  and 
Canada,  and  he  has  hosts  of  admirers  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic 
as  all  of  his  principal  poems  have  been  extensively  copied  by  the 
Scottish  press.  His  themes  are  numerous,  and  his  poems,  considering 
the  very  large  number  of  them,  display  considerable  power  and  origin- 
ality of  thought.  Humor  and  pleasing  sarcasm  also  form  a  special 
characteristic  of  many  of  his  compositions.  A  good  illustration  of 
these  latter  qualities  may  be  found  in  the  poem  entitled: 

A  CRACK  Wr  BOBBY  INGERSOLL. 


Noo,  Rab,  my  lad,  I  want  tae  say 
A  word  or  twa  in  frien'ly  way 

Tae  ye,  my  chiel. 
Ilk  ither  week  ye  mak'  a  din 
About  the  clergy  and  their  sin — 
A'  praying  folks  through  thick  and  thin 

Ye  thump  them  weel. 

Ye've  got  a  notion  in  yer  pow 
That  there  can  be  nae  after  lowe — 

That  there's  nae  hell. 
Ye  mak'  some  folks  believe  it's  sae. 
An'  crack  yer  jokes  tae  them — for  pay; 
But  whaur  )^e  get  yer  logic  frae 

I  cannna  tell. 

Noo,  if  there  be  nae  hell  tae  dreid. 
Whatever  mak's  ye  fash  j'er  held. 

An'  guid  time  spen' ? 
Beside  there's  ae  thing  puzzles  me, 
Tae  after  life  ye'll  no  agree  : 
Hae  ye  been  ower  the  lake  tae  see  — 

Hoo  dae  ye  ken  ? 

It's  this  way,  Rab,  as  sure  as  death — 
We  are  na'gaun  tae  pin  our  faith 

Tae  your  coat  tail. 
Ye  may  hae  notions  in  yer  brain — 
Juist  keep  them  there — they're  a'  3'er  ain 
Aye,  whcn'yc  try  sic  tae  explain, 

Yer  sure  tae  fail. 


WILLIAM  LYLE.  73 


When  braggin'  o'  yer  duty  dune, 
Yer  suppin'  wi'  a  mucklc  spune, 

For  mair  than  you 
Hac  loved  their  brithcrs  juist  as  wecl, 
Wha  ne'er  denied  there  was  a  dcil, 
And  wi'  their  bluid  this  truth  did  seal- 

Thc  Bible's  true. 


Rab,  heids  are  heids,  ye  ken  yersel', 
An'  heids  as  guid  as  yours  can  tell 

Juist  what  they  think  : 
Maybe  the  worthies  we  could  name 
Tac  sense  had  quite  as  soond  a  claim 
As  ye  hae;  and  for  honest  fame 

Were  nae  sma'  drink. 


Sae  haud  ye,  man,  an'  dinna  squeeze, 
Yer  conscience  for  twa-thrce  bawbees 

Gie  us  a  rest  ! 
Gin  ye  think  Jonah  gulped  the  whale, 
Sae  let  it  be — baith  held  and  tail  ; 
But  losh  !  man,  Rab,  let  ilk  ane  sail 

As  he  thinks  best. 


Our  author  has  been  connected  for  a  number  of  years  with  the 
Scottish  Society  of  Rochester.  He  takes  a  deep  interest  in  everything 
pertaining  to  the  welfare  of  this  patriotic  organization,  and  no  member 
is  better  known  or  more  highly  respected  than  he  is.  It  has  been 
customary  with  him  for  many  years  past  to  present  the  society  with 
an  original  and  always  able  and  pleasing  poetical  address,  on  the 
occasion  of  its  annual  observance  of  the  birthday  of  Robert  Burns, 
and  he  has  thus  worthily  borne  the  title  of  Poet  Laureate  of  the 
society,  an  honor  which  his  brother  members  conferred  upon  hirn 
many  years  since  in  recognition  of  his  talents.  These  addresses  are 
of  considerable  length,  and  if  they  were  collected  together  and  pub. 
lished  in  book  form  they  would  make  a  very  interesting  and  unique 
little  volume.  We  cannot  conclude  our  brief  sketch  of  Mr.  Lyle  and 
his  works  without  referring  in  the  highest  terms  to  his  English  com- 
positions. They  are  certainly  ecpial  to  his  poems  in  the  Scottish  dia- 
lect, and  prove  that  he  possesses  true  poetic  genius.  The  following 
poem  in  this  respect  will  speak  for  itself: 


74  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


THE  MURDER  AT  HOLYROOD. 


Night's  ebon  curtain  fell  once  more 
On  quaint  Edina,  Lothian's  pride; 

Again  the  pointed  gables  wore 
The  mystic  robes  of  eventide. 

And  stood  up  gaunt  and  grim  and  hoar, 
Like  spectral  giants,  side  by  side. 

The  narrow  streets  were  still  and  lone. 

No  taper  with  its  fitful  glare 
From  odd  projecting  casement  shone, 

Or  struggled  with  the  murky  air, 
While  now  and  then  the  night  guard's  tone 

In  query  curt  cried,  "  Wha  gangs  there  ?" 

Dark,  silent  city,  little  dream 

Your  honest  burghers  while  thej'  sleep 
That  horrid  murder's  daggers  gleam 

In  ruthless  hands,  and  curses  deep 
Will  mar  the  peace  of  happy  themes 

When  morn  shall  rise  on  eyes  that  weep. 

At  Holyrood — sweet  royal  name — 
In  stately  room,  of  fashion  old. 

Lit  by  lambient  spirit  flame. 

Sat  Scotland's  Queen,  and,  roundly  told, 

All  of  the  friends  her  lot  could  claim, 
Alas,  how  few  were  in  the  fold. 

A   plaintive  air  from  skillful  hand, 
Remembered  her  of  happy  days 

In  sunny  France,  the  summer  land. 
Ere  sorrow  fell  upon  her  ways, 

While  beauteous  lips  in  concert  planned 
To  meet  the  minstrel's  witching  lays. 

To  some  hearts  come  when  skies  are  glad, 
And  Nature  smiles  her  sweetest  smile, 

A  premonition,  softly  sad. 

Like  shadow  from  some  unseen  isle. 

Thus  oft  our  thoughts  in  gloom  are  clad, 
With  sunshine  overhead  the  while. 

A  presence  seemed  to  fill  that  room 

No  one  could  name  and  none  could  see, 

A  creeping  terror,  and  a  gloom 

Lip  feared  to  mention.     Minstrelsy, 

However  sweet,  had  sound  of  doom. 
And  nameless  sorrow  soon  to  be. 


WILLIAM  LYLE.  75 


Hush,  hark,  a  ring  of  rattling  mail 

Steals  on  the  startled  ear  and  then 
The  crash  of  timber,  cheeks  grow  pale 

And  hearts  beat  high — it  comes  again! 
Eft  soon  that  sound  has  told  its  tale — 

The  room  is  filled  with  armoured  men. 

Sprang  the  fair  Sovereign  from  her  scat: 
"  What  means  this  outrage  ?  how  my  lords. 

Have  ye  no  shame?  or  is  it  meet 
To  face  your  Queen  with  flashing  swords  ? 

Douglas!  on  guard,  these  traitors  greet! 
Death  with  this  treason  well  accords." 

Swift  the  stern  Ruthven  crossed  his  blade 
With  youthful  Douglas,  whose  slim  steel. 

Unused  to  war's  more  trenchent  trade. 
Snapped  at  the  hilt,  ere  he  could  feel 

The  gash  the  sullen  earl  had  made. 
Or  note  his  doublet's  bloody  seal. 

"'Tis  not  with  striplings  we  would  war," 
Cried  Murray,  as  he  viewed  the  fight. 

"  This  popinjay  and  his  guitar 

Must  no  more  blast  the  nation's  sight. 

Madame,  stand  back,  for  by  my  star, 
And  God's  own  Son,  he  dies  to-night." 

Then  hauberks  Hashed,  on  floor  and  stair 
Gleamed  naked  swords  behind  whose  blades 

Each  bosom  was  a  tiger's  lair, 

Where  vengeance  lurked  in  stygian  shades. 

"  Hound,"  the  fierce  Ruthven  howled,  "prepare; 
Scotland  is  tired  of  masquerades." 

Then  flashed  the  Stuart's  pallid  face, 
She  bounded  dogs  and  prey  between. 

So  meekest  hearts  to  grandeur  brace 
When  danger  shows  and  wrong  is  seen. 

Stamping  her  foot  with  royal  grace, 
She  stood  there  every  inch  a  queen. 

"  Caitiffs  and  curs,  this  boy  shall  feel 
Through  our  own  heart  your  traitor  blows. 

Unhand  me,  Darnley!  thus  you  seal 

Your  marriage  vow,  thus  treason  grows. 

Guards,  without  there.     This  last  appeal 

Is  from  your  Queen,  whose  friends  are  foes." 


76  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


"Lords  of  the  Covenant,  is  hate 

A  tenant  of  the  church  you  own  ? 
We've  heard  you  all  of  mercy  prate. 

Is  this  its  outcome?  this  its  tone  ? 
Mother  of  God,  look  on  our  fate — 

For  thou  art  more  than  crown  or  throne." 

Few  words  were  said,  few  were  to  say, 

'Twas  chance  and  thrust  with  lightning  speed; 

Poor  Rizzio  fell,  his  doublet  grey 

Dabbled  in  blood.     Oh,  hellish  deed; 

Man  becomes  demon  when  his  sway 
Is  held  in  common  with  his  creed. 

Drag  the  dead  minstrel  from  the  place 
He  loved  so  well,  by  his  Queen's  side. 

Cold  dews  of  death  o'erspread  his  face; 
Winds  tell  his  mother  of  her  pride — 

Tell  her  his  name  bore  no  disgrace, 
But  men  were  cruel,  and  he  died. 

The  sun  arose  o'er  Arthur's  throne 

In  liquid  floods  of  golden  brown. 
Poor  hunted  Mary  sat  alone. 

And  viewed  the  dead  with  mournful  frown. 
She  knew  it  not,  but  she  had  gone 

One  step  nearer  the  martyr's  crown. 

Thus  every  time  the  sun  shall  rise, 
Its  rays  will  fall  on  varied  scenes; 

Some  hearts  give  song  and  some  give  sighs, 
While  some  are  kings  and  some  are  queens, 

Some  from  hovels  send  weary  cries, 
Nor  recks  the  sun  what  all  this  means. 


Mr.  Lyle  is  at  present  arranging  for  the  publication  of  a  new  volume 
of  poems  which  his  friends  have  at  length  induced  him  to  place  before 
the  public.  It  will  be  entitled  "  The  Martyr  Queen  and  Other  Poems," 
from  which  "  The  Murder  at  Holyrood  "  is  an  extract,  and  we  feel 
assured  that  the  little  volume  will  receive  a  hearty  welcome  from  all 
true  lovers  of  Scottish  poetry.  Its  publication  will  undoubtedly  add 
to  the  fame  of  its  author,  although  this  is  hardly  necessary,  as  he 
has  already  earned  a  reputation  for  himself  of  which  he  may  justly 
feel  proud. 


WILLIAM    WILSON. 

A  truer,  nobler,  trustier  heart, 

More  loving  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 

Within  a  human  breast. 

"  Having  summered  and  wintered  it  for  many  long  years  with  your 
dear  father,  I  ought  to  know  something  of  the  base  and  bent  of  his 
genius,  though,  as  he  hated  all  shams  and  pretensions,  a  very  slight 
acquaintance  with  him  showed  that  independence  and  personal  man- 
hood, *as  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me,'  were  two  of  his  strong  features; 
while  humor,  deep  feeling  and  tenderness  were  prominent  in  all  he 
said  or  wrote.  *  *  i  loved  him  as  a  man,  a  poet  and  a  brother,  and 
I  had  many  proofs  that  my  feelings  were  reciprocated."  So  wrote 
Hew  Ainslie  of  William  Wilson  in  a  letter  addressed  to  General  James 
Grant  Wilson,  the  esteemed  editor  of  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scot- 
land" and  of  the  "Cyclopaedia  of  American  Biography."  William 
Wilson  was  born  at  Crieff  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  December,  1801.  Ha 
was  educated  with  great  care,  and  early  began  to  take  an  interest  in 
poetical  matters;  indeed,  many  of  his  own  verses,  written  before  he 
had  reached  his  tenth  year,  prove  that  even  at  this  tender  age  he  was 
possessed  of  superior  i)oetical  talents.  He  is  aaid  to  have  inherited 
these  gifts  from  his  mother,  a  patriotic  Scottish  lady  who  ever  delighted 
in  singing  the  old  Jacobite  sjngs  and  ballads,  which  she  did  with  much 
sweetness  and  pathos.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two  Mr,  Wilson  removed 
to  Dundee,  where  he  edited  for  some  liiue  the  Literary  Olio,  and  10 
which  he  contributed  largely,  both  in  poetry  and  prose.  He  afterwards 
went  to  Edinburgh  and  entered  into  business  on  his  own  account  as  a 
commission  agent.  While  there  he  is  credited  with  having  contributed 
no  less  than  thirty-two  valuable  jjoems  in  less  than  three  years  to  the 
Edinburgh  Literary  Journal^  a  well-known  publication  then  under  the 
editorship   of   Henry    Glassford   Bell,    late    Sheriff   of    Lanarkshire. 


78  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Through  his  connection  with  this  periodical  he  was  brought  into  con- 
tact with  nearly  all  of  the  prominent  Hterary  men  of  the  time,  and 
among  others  with  Robert  Chambers,  then  a  young  man  just  beginning 
his  wonderful  literary  career,  with  whom  he  formed  a  warm  friendship 
which  was  only  terminated  by  death.  He  was  also  a  great  favorite 
with  Mrs.  Grant,  of  Laggan,  who  claimed  the  privilege  of  naming  his 
eldest  son,  by  his  second  marriage  with  a  member  of  an  old  Border 
family,  after  her  husband,  the  Rev.  James  Grant.  This  lady  the 
young  poet  first  saw  while  on  a  visit  to  his  friend  the  "  Ettrick  Shep- 
ard,"  who  delighted  in  his  spirited  singing  of  old  Scottish  songs  and 
ballads. 

In  1833  Mr.  Wilson  emigrated  to  America  and  took  up  his  residence 
in  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.  Here  he  established  a  book-selling  and  pub- 
lishing business,  which  he  conducted  with  great  success  for  nearly 
thirty  years.  For  a  portion  of  this  period  he  had  for  a  partner  a 
brother  of  Bishops  Alonzo  and  Horatio  Potter,  and  for  a  few  years 
before  his  death,  his  son,  General  Wilson.  But  during  all  these  years 
he  continued  to  pour  foith  his  heart  in  song,  and  many  of  his  finest 
pieces  were  composed  at  brief  intervals  amid  the  cares  and  anxieties 
of  this  busy  portion  of  his  life.  Many  of  these  compositions  were 
given  to  the  world  anonymously,  and  in  this  manner  did  not  at  once 
attain  the  popularity  which  they  afterward  achieved.  They  are  now 
classed  with  the  more  illustrious  of  Scottish  poems,  however,  and  Mr. 
Wilson  has  long  since  been  accorded  a  prominent  place  among  the 
bards  of  his  country.  He  was  indeed  a  true  Scottish  poet,  simplicity, 
tenderness,  pathos  or  humor  being  characteristic  of  all  his  writings. 
Apart  from  his  poems,  however,  his  lyrical  compositions  have  made 
him  a  universal  favorite  with  his  countrymen  everywhere.  Few  Scots- 
men, even  in  America,  for  instance,  are  unacquainted  with  his 

AULD  JOHNNY  GRAHAM. 


Dear  aunty,  what  think  ye  o'  auld  Johnny  Graham  ? 

The  carle  sae  pawkic  and  slee  ! 
He  wants  a  bit  wifie  to  tend  his  bein  liame, 

And  the  bodie  has  ettled  at  me. 

Wi'  bonnet  sae  vaiinty,  an'  owerlay  sae  clean. 
An'  ribbon  that  waved  boon  his  bree, 

He  cam'  doun  the  cleiigh  at  the  gloamin'  yestreen, 
An'  rappit,  an  soon  specrt  for  me. 


WILLIAM    WILSON.  79 


I  bade  him  come  ben  whare  my  minnie  sac  thrang 

Was  birlin'  her  wheel  eidentlie, 
An",  foul  fa'  the  carle,  he  was  na'  that  lang 

Ere  he  tauld  out  his  errand  to  me. 

"  Ilech,  Tibb)',  lass  !  a'  yon  braid  acres  o'  land, 

Wi'  ripe  craps  that  wave  bonnilic. 
An',  mciklc  mair  gear  shall  be  at  yer  command, 

Gin  ye  will  look  kindly  on  me. 

"  Yon  licrd  o'  fat  owscn  that  rout  i'  the  glen, 

Sax  naigies  that  nibble  the  lea  ; 
The  kye  i'  the  sheugh,  and  the  sheep  i'  the  pen, 

I'se  gie  a',  dear  Tibby,  to  thee. 

"  An',  lassie,  I've  goupins  o'  gowd  in  a  stockin', 

An'  pcarlin's  wad  dazzle  yer  e'e  ; 
A  mettl'd,  but  canny  young  yaud  for  the  yokin' 

When  ye  wad  gae  jauntin'  wi'  me. 

"  I'll  hap  ye  and  fend  ye,  and  busk  ye  and  tend  ye. 

And  mak'  ye  the  licht  o'  my  e'e  ; 
I'll  comfort  and  cheer  ye,  and  daut  ye  and  dear  ye, 

As  couthy  as  couthy  can  be. 

I've  lo'ed  ye,  dear  lassie,  since  first,  a  bit  bairn, 

Ye  ran  up  the  knowc  to  meet  me  ; 
An'  dcckit  my  bonnet  wi'  blue-bells  an'  fern, 

Wi'  mcikle  glad  laughin'  an'  glee. 

"  An'  noo  woman  grown,  an'  niensefu'  an'  fair. 

An'  gracefu'  as  gracefu'  can  be — 
Will  ye  tak'  an  auld  carle  wha  ne'er  had  a  care 

For  woman,  dear  Tibby,  but  thee?" 

Sae,  aunty,  ye  see  I'm  a'  in  a  swither. 

What  answer  the  bodie  to  gie — 
But  aften  I  wish  he  wad  tak'  my  auld  mither, 

And  let  puir  young  Tibby  abee. 

Another  of  Mr.  Wilson's  lyrical  compositions  which  has  won  tor 
itself  a  well-merited  popularity  is  the  one  entitled  "Jean  Linn."  This 
was  not  only  a  favorite  with  the  author  but  was  also  admired  and 
highly  spoken  of  by  Dr.  Robert  Chambers,  N.  P.  Willis,  Hew  Ainslie 
and  other  prominent  authorities. 


So  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


JEAN   LINN. 


Oh,  baud  na'  3'er  noddle  sae  hie  ma  doo! 
Oh,  baud  na'  j'cr  noddle  sae  hie! 
The  days  that  hae  been  may  be  yet  again  seen. 
Sae  look  na'  sae  lightly  on  me,  ma  doo  ! 
Sae  look  na'  sae  lightly  on  me ! 

Oh,  geek  na'  at  hame  hodden  gray,  Jean  Linn. 
Oh,  geek  na'  at  hame  hodden  gray  ! 
Yer  gutcher  and  mine  wad  thocht  themsels  fine 
In  cleidin'  sae  bein,  bonnie  May,  bonnie  May — 
In  cleidin'  sae  bein  bonnie  May. 

Ye  mind  when  we  won  in  whinglee,  Jean  Linn, 
Ye  mind  when  we  won  in  whinglen, 
Your  daddy,  douce  carle,  was  cotter  to  mine 
An'  our  herd  was  yer  bonnie  sel',  then  Jean  Linn, 
An'  our  herd  was  yer  bonnie  sel',  then. 

Oh,  then  ye  were  a'  thing  to  me,  Jean  Linn  ! 

Oh,  then  ye  Avere  a'  thing  to  me  ! 

An'  the  moments  scour'd  by  like  birds  through  the  sk}-, 

When  tentin'  the  owsen  wi'  thee,  Jean  Linn, 

When  tentin'  the  owsen  wi'  thee. 

I  twined  ye  a  bower  by  the  burn,  Jean  Linn, 

I  twined  ye  a  bower  by  the  burn, 

But  dreamt  na'  that  hour,  as  we  sat  in  that  bower, 

That  fortune  wad  tak'  sic  a  turn,  Jean  Linn, 

That  fortune  wad  tak'  sic  a  turn. 

Ye  busk  noo  in  satins  fu'  braw,  Jean  Linn, 
Ye  busk  noo  in  satins  fu'  braw! 
ler  daddy's  a  laird,  mine's  i'  the  kirkj-ard, 
An'  I'm  yer  puir  ploughman,  Jock  Law,  Jean  Linn, 
An'  I'm  yer  puir  ploughman  Jock  Law. 

While  Mr.  Wilson  wrote  largely  in  his  mother  tongue,  he  has  also 
given  us  many  valuable  gems  of  English  poetry.  Of  these  his  "Rich- 
ard Coeur  De  Lion  "  is  the  best.  This  is  the  piece  which  Mr.  William 
Cullen  Hryant  claimed  to  be  "more  spirited  than  any  of  the  ballads 
of  Aytoun." 


WILLIAM    WILSON.  8i 


RICHARD  CCEUR  DE  LION. 


Brightly,  brightly  tlic  moonbeam  shines, 

On  the  castle  turret-wall; 
Darkly,  darkly,  the  spirit  pines 

Deep,  deep  in  its  dungeon's  thrall. 
He  hears  the  screech-owl  whoop  reply 

To  the  warden's  drowsy  strain, 
And  thinks  of  home,  and  heaves  a  sigh, 

For  his  own  bleak  hills  again. 

Sweetly,  sweetly  the  spring  flowers  spread, 

When  first  he  was  fettered  there  ; 
Slowly,  slowly  the  sere  leaves  fade, 

Yet  breathes  he  that  dungeon's  air. 
All  lowly  lies  his  banner  bright, 

That  formost  in  battle  streamed. 
And  dim  the  sword  that  in  the  fight 

Like  midnight  meteor  gleamed. 

But  place  his  foot  upon  the  plain, 

That  banner  o'er  his  head, 
His  good  lance  in  his  hand  again, 

With  Paynim  slaughter  red, 
The  craven  hearts  that  round  him  now, 

With  coward  triumph  stand. 
Would  ((uail  before  that  dauntless  brow, 

And  the  death-Hash  of  that  hand. 

Among  Mr.  Wilson's  other  short  pieces  his  "  Sweet  Lammas  Moon," 
"A  Welcome  to  Christopher  North,"  "Jeanie  Graham,"  "Sabbath 
Morning  in  the  Woods,"  and  "  Britania  "  are  worthy  of  special  notice. 
The  following  extract  in  connection  with  our  author  is  taken  from  the 
"Autobiography  and  Memoirs  of  Robert  and  William  Chambers:" — 
"Among  the  persons  to  whom  my  brother  applied  for  materials  for 
the  work  (  '  Popular  Rhymes  of  Scotland  ' )  was  William  Wilson,  a 
young  man  of  about  his  own  age  who  had  similar  poetical  and  archa;- 
logical  tastes,  and  for  a  time  edited  a  literary  periodical  in  Dundee. 
Between  the  two  there  sprung  up  an  extraordinary  friendship  which 
was  not  weakened  by  Wilson  some  years  later  emigrating  to  America. 
The  letters  which  passed  between  them  bring  into  view  a  number  of 
particulars  concerning  my  brother's  literary  aims  and  efforts.  Writing 
in  January,  1824,  to  Wilson,  whom  he  always  addresses  as  'Dear 
Willie,'  he   refers   gratifyingly  to  the  *  Traditions,'  and  the  manner 


82  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

which  the  book  had  brought  him  into  notice.  'This  little  work  is 
taking  astonishingly,  and  I  am  getting  a  great  deal  of  credit  by  it.  It 
has  also  been  the  means  of  introducing  me  to  many  of  the  most 
respectable  leading  men  of  the  town,  and  has  attracted  to  me  the 
attention  of  not  a  few  of  the  most  eminent  literary  characters.  What 
would  you  think,  for  instance,  of  the  venerable  author  of  the  *  Man  of 
Feeling '  calling  on  me  in  his  carriage  to  contribute  his  remarks  in 
MS.  on  my  work!  The  value  of  the  above  two  great  advantages  is 
incalculable  to  a  young  tradesman  and  author  like  me.  It  saves  me 
twenty  years  of  mere  laborious  plodding  by  the  common  walk,  and 
gives  me  at  twenty-two  all  the  respectability  which  I  could  have 
expected  at  forty.'"  Mr.  Wilson  died  at  Poughkeepsie  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  August,  i860.  The  last  of  his  work  were  the  following  verses, 
written  in  a  feeble  and  faltering  hand  a  few  days  before  his  death: 

WANING  LIFE  AND  WEARY. 


Waning  life  and  weary, 

Fainting  heart  and  limb, 
Darkening  road  and  drear}-, 
Flashing  eyes  grow  dim  ; 
All  betokening  nightfall  near, 
Day  is  done  and  rest  is  dear. 
Slowly  stealing  shadows 

Westward  lengthening  still 
O'er  the  dark  brown  meadows. 
O'er  the  sunlit  hill. 

Gleams  of  golden  glory 

From  the  opening  sk.v, 
Gild  those  temples  hoary — 

Kiss  that  closing  eye  : 
Now  drops  the  curtain  on  all  wrong — 

Throes  of  sorrow,  grief  and  song. 

But  saw  ye  not  the  dying 

Ere  life  passed  away. 
Faintly  smiled  while  eying 

Yonder  setting  day  : 

And,  his  pale  hand  signing 

Man's  redemption  sign — 
Cried,  with  forehead  shining. 

Father,  I  am  thine  ! 
And  so  to  rest  he  (luictly  hath  passed. 

And  sleeps  in  Christ,  the  Comforter,  at  last. 


WILLIAM    WILSON.  83 


A  few  years  after  Mr.  Wilson's  death  a  portion  of  his  poems  were 
published  in  a  small  volume,  with  a  memoir  by  Mr.  Benson  J.  T.ossing. 
A  second  and  enlarged  edition  appeared  in  1875,  and  this  has  since 
been  followed  by  a  third  edition.  Many  of  his  poems  made  their  first 
appearance  in  I^lackwood's  Magazine  or  Chambers'  Journal,  and  selec- 
tions from  his  writings  appeared  in  Whistle  liinkie,  The  Modern  Scot- 
tish Minstrel,  Blackie's  Book  of  Scottish  Song,  The  Cabinet,  and  in 
Longfellow's  "  Poems  and  Places."  In  concluding  the  brief  memoir 
attached  to  his  father's  poems  in  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scot- 
land," CJeneral  Wilson  says: — "The  idea  of  this  work  originated  with 
William  Wilson,  but  urgent  demands  upon  his  time,  together  with 
failing  health,  interfered  with  its  execution.  The  task  devolved  upon 
his  son,  who  has  as  an  act  of  filial  duty,  no  less  than  a  labor  of  love, 
endeavored  to  complete  his  father's  unfulfilled  literary  project." 
Granting  that  the  completion  of  this  work  was  "an  act  of  filial  duty 
and  a  labor  of  love,"  it  is  still  due  to  General  Wilson  to  say  that  he 
has  given  us  one  of  the  best  and  most  valuable  books  on  the  subject 
of  Scottish  poets  and  poetry  which  has  so  far  been  published. 


ANDREW    M CLEAN. 

Tho'  modest,  on  his  unembarrassed  brow 
Nature  hath  written: — Gentleman. 

Mr.  Andrew  McLean,  the  eminent  Brooklyn  journalist,  is  also  a 
poet  of  sterling  merit.  He  is  a  native  of  Renton,  in  Dumbartonshire, 
where  he  was  born  in  1848.  After  studying  for  a  few  years  at  the 
village  school  of  Alexandria  he  became  apprenticed  to  a  carpenter, 
and  remained  at  this  trade  until  he  was  nearly  fourteen  years  of  age. 
It  cannot  be  said,  however,  that  he  took  much  interest  in  this  occupa- 
tion; certainly  it  did  not  in  any  manner  harmonize  with  his  tastes;  and 
we  may  judge  from  the  following  verses  that  it  afforded  him  consider- 
able relief  when  Saturday  night  approached  and  the  work  of  the  week 
was  nearly  over.  Then  his  thoughts  left  the  bench  and  the  workshop, 
and  he  rejoiced  that : 

The  wearisome  week  is  over, 

With  its  burden  of  fret  and  toil  ; 
To-morrow  I'll  smell  the  clover 

And  tread  the  daisied  soil, 
And  chant  a  tune  as  I  lightly  go 
More  merry  than  any  the  greenwoods  know. 

Where  the  streamlets  glint  and  shimmer. 

Through  shadows  of  maple  gloss, 
And  strolling  sunbeams  glimmer 

On  fern  and  rambling  moss, 
An  hour  I'll  spend  and  drink  the  balm 
That  the  brooklets  brew  in  the  woodland's  calm. 

He  began  to  liavc  a  desire  for  some  kind  of  occupation  where 
energy,  determination  and  ambition  were  requisite  qualities  to  success, 
and  where  the  services  of  one  i)ossessing  these  would  command 
recognition  and  advancement.     Wc  are  not  surprised  therefore  to  find 


AN  DUE  W  MCLEAN.  85 


him  at  this  time  eagerly  gazing  beyond  the  Atlantic  to  the  shores  of 
the  new  world  and  resolving  to  strike  out  for  himself  and  begin  life 
anew  under  the  flag  of  the  great  republic.  He  had  hardly  reached  his 
fifteenth  year  when  he  left  his  home  and  proceeded  to  Glasgow.  Here 
he  gladly  entered  into  an  engagement  with  the  captain  of  an  American 
vessel  to  perform  certain  duties,  for  which  he  was  to  be  allowed  a  free 
passage  across  to  New  York.  The  recollection  many  years  afterward 
of  this  eventful  period  of  his  life  inspired  his  muse,  and  in  spirit  he 
became  a  boy  again  with  a  farewell  song  on  his  lips  to  his  native  land: 

Deep  crimson  heather  bloom, 
Rich  yellow  blushing  broom, 
Sweet,  fragrant  Scotch  bluebell, 
Farewell  !  farewell  ! 

Song-hearted,  throbbing  lark, 
Gray  cushat  crooning  dark, 
Shy,  plaintive  "bonnet  blue," 
Adieu!  adieu  ! 

Broad-bosomed,  silver  lake, 
Leven's  rippling,  sunny  wake. 
Grim,  grizzly  mountains  high, 

Good-b)e  !  good-bye  ! 

Scenes  that  I  loved  and  roved  among : 
Rocks  that  echoed  my  earliest  song  ; 
Birds  I  knew  in  the  nesting  days  ; 
Flowers  I  plucked  by  the  woodland  ways  ; 
Lake  of  silver  and  sunny  stream — 
Beauteous  all  as  a  sinless  dream  ; 
I  say  farewell,  good-bye,  adieu. 
But  life  shall  end  ere  I  part  from  you  ; 
Ye  are  present  wheresoever  I  be. 
Thy  life  is  mine;  I  am  part  of  thee. 

Arriving  here  during  the  excitement  of  the  war,  McLean  entered 
the  navy  and  served  with  distinction  and  honor  until  its  close.  On 
his  return  he  took  up  his  residence  with  some  friends  in  Brooklyn, 
and  after  spending  some  time  as  a  student  in  a  commercial  college, 
he  decided  to  adopt  journalism  as  a  profession.  He  obtained  a 
position  on  a  daily  as  a  reporter,  and  it  did  not  take  long  for  the 
management  of  the  paper  to  discover  that  they  had  made  a  valuable 
acquisition  to  their  staff.  He  proved  himself  an  original  and  terse 
writer  on  all  subjects.     After  serving  in  one  or  two  other  positions  he 


S6  SCOTTISH  POETS  /AT  AMERICA. 

became  assistant  editor  of  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle.  On  the  death 
of  Mr.  Kinsella  he  became  editor-in-chief;  but  in  1886  he  severed  his 
connection  with  the  Eagle  and  started  what  is  now  not  only  the 
recognized  organ  of  the  Democratic  party  in  Brooklyn,  but  a  first- 
class  evening  newspaper  generally,  namely,  the  Brooklyn  Citizen.  Mr. 
McLean  is  cerlainly  a  hard  and  conscientious  worker  in  the  newspaper 
field,  and  the  public  has  not  been  slow  to  recognize  his  talents  in  this 
respect.  "  The  true  Scottish  '  grit '  of  McLean  is  proved  by  his 
antecedents,"  writes  one  of  his  literary  friends.  "  He  is  an  eloquent 
and  effective  public  speaker,  and  the  skill  and  ability  he  has  displayed 
in  conducting  an  influential  daily  are  generally  conceded.  Engaged 
as  he  is,  he  has  but  few  leisure  hours  to  devote  to  poetry;  and  yet 
such  is  the  energy  of  the  man  that  he  has  actually  written  much — 
no  small  portion  of  which  bears  the  stamp  of  poetical  genius."  The 
following  is  one  of  his  best  known  poems: 

THE  JEWELS  OF  BLARNEY. 


'Tis  told  us  pleasantl}',  by  the  simple  peasantry 

Whose  hearts  ne'er  wander  tho'  their  words  may  stray, 
How  an  earl's  daughters  into  Blarney's  waters 

Cast  all  their  jewels  on  a  hapless  da)' ; 
There  to  be  pendant  till  some  late  descendant, 

Finding  from  war  and  bigotr)'  release, 
Shall  bid  the  fairies  on  whom  the  care  is, 

Bring  them  to  deck  his  coronet  in  peace. 

There's  another  story,  presaging  glory, 

And  something  better,  which  the  peasants  tell  : 
For  witching  reasons,  in  happy  seasons, 

When  the  earth  is  under  the  new  moon's  spell, 
Come  flocks  all  white,  from  the  breast  of  night, 

Calmly  to  graze  near  the  pearly  strand  ; 
So  that  favored  eyes  may  at  least  surmise 

That  a  spotless  future  awaits  the  land. 

These  old  traditions  and  superstitions 

Yield  a  moral  that  fits  our  time  and  place — 
They've  a  counterpart  in  each  human  heart 

That  throbs  with  the  heat  of  an  ancient  race; 
The  Bigot's  word  and  Oppression's  sword 

Made  a  lake  far  deeper  than  Blarney  knows. 
And  in  its  water  (iood  Will's  fair  daughters 

Once  buried  jewels  more  rare  than  those. 


ANDREW  MCLEAN.  87 


Clancarty's  carl  ne'er  owned  a  pearl 

To  compare  with  tlic  Kf"  of  hrotlicrhood  ; 
Nor  in  any  mine  dolh  a  diamond  shine 

Like  the  soul  that  longs  for  another's  good. 
No  glittering  schist,  or  soft  amcthysl 

Can  rival  the  beams  of  a  friendly  eye  ; 
The  emerald  fades  and  llic  topaz  shades 

In  the  Hashing  light  of  a  purpose  high. 

On  a  new  made  plain  I  observe  again 

The  Blarney  Hocks  with  their  spotless  dress, 
And  a  shepherd  near,  from  the  fairy  sphere, 

Maketh  signs  wliic  li  my  heart  is  swift  to  guess  : 
Our  Age  is  the  heir  to  the  jewels  fair 

That  Good  Will  buried  in  evil  days, 
And  wc  shall  sec  in  our  own  land  free 

The  diadem  on  his  forehead  blaze. 

Let  us  sing  old  songs  and  bury  old  wrongs. 

And  draw  from  the  past,  not  gloom  but  cheer  ; 
The  angry  moods  of  our  fathers'  feuds 

Should  be  given  no  place  in  our  gatherings  here  : 
Let  our  children  boast  when  our  healths  they  toast 

At  the  festal  boards  of  the  years  to  come, 
That  their  fathers'  choice  was  for  friendship's  voice. 

And  in  favor  of  striking  rancor  dumb. 

Mr.  McLean  is  a  poet  of  excellent  fancy  and  power.  His  com- 
positions, as  a  rule,  evince  a  true  sympathy  with  nature,  and  there  is 
a  tenderness  and  melody,  besides  a  quaint  simplicity,  displayed  in 
all  of  them.  Many  of  them  also  contain  pleasing  and  thoughtful 
ideas,  expressed  in  the  choicest  of  language.  Take  for  instance  his 
poem  entitled : 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 


Sweet  songs  of  old  !  they  tluiil  to-day, 
With  undiminished  gladness, 

Our  hearts  beneath  their  heads  of  gray 
And  under  brows  of  sadness. 

Again  they  bring  the  bounding  joy 
Wc  knew  among  the  heather 

When,  sunny  girl  and  ardent  boy. 
We  roved  and  sang  together. 


88  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

What  Ponce  de  Leon  sought  in  vain, 

Youth's  sparkling,  never  failing  fountain, 

We  find  in  ever)'  witching  strain 

Of  lightsome  deeds  by  vale  and  mountain. 

Oh  youth  behind  the  mask  of  years  ! 

Oh  subtle  singing  rare  magician, 
When  e'er  thy  voice  the  spirit  hears. 

She  conquers  age  and  scorns  transition. 

Away  the  latter  sorows  flee 

And  hither  troop  to  take  their  places, 
The  radicnt  eyes  the  fleckless  glee 

Of  garnered  days  and  gathered  graces. 

In  ever}-  note  a  glor)'  lives  ; 

In  every  cord  pure  love  vows  tremble  ; 
At  every  call  the  singing  gives 

A  thousand  happy  thoughts  assemble. 

To  age  we  give  the  meed  of  age. 

But  when  the  tuneful  breeze  is  blowing 
Affection  leaves  the  wrinkled  cage. 

And,  eagle  like,  her  pinions  showing, 

(^utsoars  the  dusk,  the  gray  of  grief. 

The  changing  winds  of  seasons  rolling 
To  revel  in  the  high  relief 

Of  spheres  beyond  the  world's  controlling 

Thrice  blessed  be  the  songs  of  old. 

And  blessed  be  the  tongues  that  sing  them. 

And  blessed  be  the  hearts  that  fold 
Their  sweetness  wluii  the  minstrels  bring  them. 

In  1878  Mr,  McLean  published  a  small  volume  of  his  poems.  The 
principal  ])oem  in  the  collection  is  the  one  entitled '*  Tom  Moore." 
This  was  written  for  and  read  by  the  author,  at  the  celebration,  by  the 
St.  Patrick's  Society  of  Brooklyn,  of  the  ninety-ninth  anniversary  of 
the  poet's  birth.  According  to  the  "argument"  the  poem  ])roceeds 
to  disclose  a  council  held  in  Elysium  by  Irishmen  before  the  birth  of 
Moore,  at  which.  Heaven  having  signified  a  willingness  to  grant  their 
country  whatever  single  gift  they  should  agree  upon,  it  was  resolved 
to  ask  for  a  poet,  who  should  win  the  admiration  of  the  world  and 
glorify  the  Emerald  Isle.  In  the  course  of  the  debate  the  (jualities 
and  purposes  of  his  song  are  determined  by  various  speakers.     It  is 


ANDREW  MCLEAN.  89 

also  shown  that  the  misapprehensions  of  this  life  so  cease  in  the  light 
of  the  upi)er  world  that  old  enemies  find  themselves  one  in  sympathy. 
Taken  altogether  the  poem  is  certainly  a  very  able  and  spirited  one. 
It  is,  of  course,  too  long  for  cpiotation  here  and  it  has  to  be  read 
through  to  thoroughly  appreciate  its  many  beautiful  passages  and 
similies.  Among  the  smaller  i)oems  in  the  volume  "A  Glimpse  of 
April  Sun  "  is  particularly  fine. 

Hail,  gladsome  gleam  of  April  sun  ! 

Thou  glance  from  Nature's  kindly  eye  ; 
Bright  i)ledge  of  boisterous  weather  done  ; 

Fair  flowery  fragrant  prophecy. 

Thy  radiance  to  the  bluebird  shows 

The  gentleness  he  loves  to  sing, 
When  winds  that  wanton  with  the  rose  • 

Forsake  the  rose  to  fan  his  wing. 

The  various  creatures  of  the  woods 

Are  gladdened  by  thy  early  grace. 
As  I  am  glad  when  angry  moods, 

Pass  cloud-like  from  an  old  friend's  face. 

Socially,  Mr.  McLean  is  one  of  the  best  of  men.  He  is  possessed 
of  a  warm,  confiding  and  generous  nature,  and  he  has  won  the  esteem 
and  friendship  of  all  parlies  with  uhom  he  has  come  in  contact. 
While  he  is  the  author  of  nearly  one  hundred  poems,  not  one  of  which 
he  may  be  ashamed  to  own,  still  he  is  extremely  modest  in  his  own 
estimation  of  his  poetical  abilities,  and  it  is  seldom  that  his  poems 
when  printed  for  the  first  time  have  the  proper  signature  attached  to 
them. 


DANIEL    McINTYRE    HENDERSON 


Here  too  dwells  simple  truth;  plain  innocence; 
Unsullied  beauty,  sound  unbroken  youth; 
Patient  of  labor,  with  a  little  pleased; 
Health  ever  blooming,  unambitious  toil; 
Calm  contemplation  and  poetic  ease. 


The  west  of  Scotland  has  been  the  birthplace  of  many  eminent 
poets,  and  among  these  Mr.  Daniel  Mclntyre  Henderson,  the  subject 
of  our  present  sketch,  is  destined  to  occupy  a  prominent  place  at  no 
distant  date.  He  was  born  at  Glasgow  on  the  tenth  of  July,  185 1,  but 
in  1 86 1  his  family  removed  to  Blackhill  Locks,  a  short  distance  from 
the  city,  and  a  place  where  there  was  little  or  no  society.  The  situa- 
tion, however,  had  its  charms  for  our  youthful  poet.  He  was  compelled 
to  walk  to  and  from  the  city  each  day,  first  for  educational,  and  later 
on  in  life  for  social  and  literary  advantages,  and  he  attributes  to  this 
largely  the  fact  that  the  thoughts  of  a  naturally  reflective  mind  began 
to  shape  themselves  in  rhyme.  As  with  nearly  all  modern  Scottish 
poets.  Burns  became  his  earliest  model,  and  many  of  his  boyhood's 
musings  were  inspired  by  reading  and  studying  certain  poems  of  the 
master  bard.  As  soon  as  his  education  was  finished  he  was  sent  to 
learn  the  wholesale  drapery  business,  but  he  soon  left  this  occupation, 
and  after  filling  one  or  two  other  positions  became  bookkeei)er  to  the 
Scottish  Permissive  Bill  and  Temperance  Association.  Since  that 
time  he  has  taken  an  active  part  in  all  temperance  and  religious  move- 
ments, and  some  of  the  beautiful  hymns  now  sung  in  our  churches  are 
from  his  ])en.  We  append  a  specimen  of  his  religious  poetry,  written 
in  his  mother-tongue  : 


DANIEL  MCINTYRE  HENDERSON.  91 

on,  LIPPEN  AN'  BE  LEAL. 

(A  Paraphrase). 

(3h,  lippcn  an'  be  leal  ! 

The  Fallicr's  bairns  are  ye — 
A'  that  He  does  is  weel, 

And  a'  that's  guid  He'll  gie  ! 

The  birds  they  ken  nae  cark. 

They  fear  nae  cauld  nor  weet — 
His  e'e's  ower  a'  His  wark, 

They  dinna  want  for  meat. 

Think  o'  the  bonnie  flow'rs, 

Wi'  slender,  gracefu'  stem, 
Drinkin'  the  summer  show'rs — 

The  Father  cares  for  them  ! 

The  lilies  o'  the  field 

At  God's  ain  biddin'  bloom  ; 
His  bosom  is  their  beild, 

His  breath  is  their  perfume. 

And  if  He  minds  the  llow'rs, 

And  decks  them  oot  sac  braw. 
He'll  care  for  you  and  yours — 

Then  trust  Him  wi'  your  a'. 

The  Father's  bairns  are  ye — 

A'  that  He  does  is  weel, 
And  a'  that's  guid  He'll  gie — 

Oh,  lippen  an'  be  leal  ! 

Mr.  Henderson  composed  a  considerable  number  of  poems  before 
coming  to  this  country,  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  none  of  these 
have  been  preserved.  He  tells  us  that  when  he  resolved  to  leave  Scot- 
land he  also  resolved  to  "  cpiit  rhyming,"  as  he  had  reached  the  con- 
clusion that  he  was  not  a  poet,  a  wonderful  conclusion,  by  the  way, 
for  one  of  the  rhyming  fraternity  to  reach.     Landing  in  Baltimore  in 

1873  he  obtained  a  position  as  bookkeeper  with  Messrs.  R.  Renwick 
&  Sons,  the  well-known  furniture  mauufacturers,  with  whom  he  still 
remains.     Memories  of  home  soon  revived  the  poetic  spirit,  and  in 

1874  appeared  "  Flowers  frae  Hame,"  an  exquisite  lyrical  piece,  which 


92  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

was  at  once  set  to  music  by  the  late  Mr.  Archibald  Johnson,  of  New- 
York,  and  became  decidedly  popular.  Soon  afterward  appeared  his 
"Scotland  Mine,"  a  poem  which  proved  that  however  much  he  had 
become  attached  to  the  land  of  his  adoption,  his  heart  still  beat  loyally 
toward  the  land  of  his  birth. 

Oh,  Scotland  mine,  my  mother-land, 

How  grand,  how  fair  art  thou  ; 
The  sunbeams  play  about  thy  feet, 

The  lightnings  round  thy  brow. 
How  stout  of  arm,  how  fierce  of  speech, 

In  battle  and  in  storm  ; 
But  to  thy  children,  bosom-nursed. 

How  tender-souled  and  warm. 

My  mother-land,  how  bare  thy  form, 

How  wild  thy  heart  of  flame. 
Till  kindly  snows  and  mists  and  dews 

With  gentlest  soothing  came: 
And  now  in  nature's  greenest  robe, 

A  queen  I  see  thee  stand  ; 
The  fairest,  grandest  child  of  earth. 

My  own,  my  mother-land. 

In  1880  Baltimore  celebrated  its  sesqui-centennial,  A  feature  of 
the  occasion  was  a  parade  of  the  Scottish  societies,  with  delegates 
from  New  York,  Philadelphia  and  other  cities,  Mr.  Henderson  con- 
tributed an  ode  in  connection  with  the  event  which  was  widely  copied 
and  favorably  noticed.  An  epistle,  also  written  about  this  time  to 
the  late  Mr.  David  Kennedy,  the  Scottish  vocalist,  was  greatly  prized 
by  him,  especially  the  verses  : 

We  want  to  hear  the  guid  auld  sangs  that  carry  back  the  mind 
To  the  faces  and  the  friendships,  and  the  hame  scenes  o'  lang  syne 
We  want  to  hear  the  Doric  braid  and  lauch  and  greet  by  turns 
As  ye  sing  the  sangs  o'  Tannahill  and  oor  ain  brither  Burns  ! 

Sac  yc'll  come  back,  Davy  Kennedy,  and  niak'  oor  hearts  rejoice 
Wi'  your  cheerie  face,  j'our  cantic  ways,  and  the  music  o'  your  voice, 
And  if  the  warl'  could  spare  you,  we'd  keep  you  for  a  year, 
And  you'd  hae  concerts  nichily,  and  we'd  a'  be  there  to  hear. 

Of  a  different  nature,  and  rich  in  humorous  sentiment,  is  Mr.  Hen- 
derson's now  famous  epistle  to  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie.     It  was  written 


DANIFJ.   AfC/iVTVRF.    HENDERSON.  93 

a  few  years  ago  and  published  in  the  New  York  Scotsman,  from 
whence  it  was  copied  into  quite  a  number  of  American  and  liritish 
newspapers.  There  is  certainly  a  great  deal  of  truth  and  honestly 
deserved  praise  comi)ressed  in  the  verses,  and  we  doubt  not  that  Mr. 
Carnegie  looked  upon  the  ])oem  as  one  of  the  kindliest  compliments 
ever  paid  to  him. 

ElMSTLE  TO  ANDREW  CARNEGIE. 


Oh,  Andrew  Carnegie,  it's  wecl  to  be  you  ! 
To  hae  siller  and  sense  is  the  lot  o'  but  few  ! 
Ye  hae  gear  and  the  grace  for  guid  to  employ  it, 
And  leisure  yc  hae  and  the  heart  to  enjoy  it — 
Lang  life  to  ye,  Andrew  Carnegie  ! 

Auld  Scotland,  oor  mither,  is  prood  o'  your  birth, 
As  she  blesses  her  bairns  abraid  ower  the  earth  ; 
And  America's  prood  ye  hae  fa'en  to  her  lot, 
Her  typical  man,  and  oor  typical  Scot — 

Lang  life  to  ye,  Andrew  Carnegie  ! 

Ye  ken  what  liard  wark  is,  ye've  earned  you  ain  bread. 
And  wrocht  your  way  up  wi'  your  liands  and  your  head. 
And  true  to  yoursel'  through  it  a'  ye  hae  been  ; 
Thougli  your  wallet  grew  fat,  your  lieait  didna  grow  lean  ; 
Lang  life  to  ye,  Andrew  Carnegie  ! 

And  noo,  through  your  l)ounty,  your  ain  native  toun 
Has  its  storehouse  o'  knowledge,  and's  prood  o'  the  boon, 
And  hearts  are  made  glad  ilka  side  o'  the  sea. 
By  the  heart  that  can  feel,  and  the  han'  that  can  gie — 
Lang  life  to  yc,  Andrew  Carnegie  ! 

It's  oh  to  be  you,  to  sae  cannily  slip 
Awa'  roun'  the  warl'  in  a  cosey  bit  ship, 
Or  merrily  rattle  owre  Britain's  braid  Ian' 
Wi'  the  wale  o'  guid  chiels  in  a  snug  four-in-han'  ! — 
Lang  life  to  ye,  Andrew  Carnegie  ! 

I  vow,  should  the  fates  or  the  fairies  decree. 
That  anither,  and  no  my  ainsel'  I  maun  be, 
Gin  luiiic  were  the  choice,  takin'  a'  things  thegither, 
I'd  be  Andicw  Carnegie,  witiiool  ony  swither  ! 
Lang  life  to  ye,  Andrew  Carnegie  ! 

In   1876   Mr.  Henderson  re-visited  Scotland  and  while  there  was 
united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Alice  Ashcroft,  a  refined  and  talented  young 


94  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

lady  who  has  since  proved  herself  well  worthy  of  the  love  which  he 
bestowed  upon  her.  "  Their  American  home,"  to  use  the  words  of 
another  well-know^n  author,  "  now  rings  with  the  music  of  children's 
voices."  Death,  liowever,  once  crossed  their  happy  threshold  and 
robbed  them  of  one  of  their  treasures.  Note  the  resigned,  yet  hope- 
ful and  Christian  spirit  in  which  the  following  verses  are  written,  in 
connection  with  the  event. 

Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  bonnie  doo, 
In  the  Faither's  keepin' ;  ' 

Nocht  shall  fear  or  fret  thee  noo 
In  the  kirkyard  sleepin  ! 

Rest  thee,  bonnie  bairnie  rest, 

Wakin's  waefu',  sleep  is  best. 

Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  bonnie  doo, 

White,  white  is  thy  plaidie, 
Sae  He  gie'th  snaw  like  'oo', 

Warm  and  lown  to  hide  thee  ! 
Rest,  my  bonnie  bairnie,  rest, 
Wakin's  waefu',  sleep  is  best. 

Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  bonnie  doo. 

Bide  the  simmer  bringin' 
Gowan's  white  and  bell's  o'  blue. 

And  the  birdies  singin'. 
Rest  thee,  bonnie  bairnie,  rest. 
Wakin's  waefu',  sleep  is  best. 

Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  bonnie  doo, 

A)'e  we'll  mind  oor  dearie. 
A'  the  gowden  simmer  through, 

A'  the  winter  dreary. 
Rest  thee,  bonnie  bairnie,  rest, 
Wakin's  waefu',  sleep  is  best. 

Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  bonnie  doo, 

Sair  has  been  oor  sorrow. 
Oh  to  greet  the  bairn  we  loe 

In  Heaven's  glecsomc  niorrf)w. 
There,  my  bairnie,  wakin's  blest, 
There,  my  bairnie,  wakin's  rest. 

The  same  sad  occasion  also  gave  rise  to  an  incident  which  tended 
in  some  measure  to  soothe  the  feelings  of  the  bereaved  parents  : 


DANIEL   MC  IN  TYRE   HENDERSON.  95 


OUR  NEIGHBOR'S  PITY. 


That  day  our  little  one  lay  dead, 

And  wc  were  sad  and  sore  of  heart, 
And  all  the  joy  of  life  seemed  fled, 

Our  neighbor  sought  to  ease  the  smart. 
Oh  !  strange,  sweet  power  of  sympathy  ! 

That  grief  should  find  assuagement  thus  ! 
Our  sorrow  seemed  the  less  to  be, 

The  more  we  thought,  she  pities  us  ! 

And  then  she  said,  how  blest  was  she, 

Since  God  had  still  denied  her  prayer, 
Nor  set  a  baby  on  her  knee  ; 

For  such  a  gift  meant  such  a  care  ! 
Our  pain  was  stilled  by  sad  surprise  ; 

New  feelings  in  our  heart  did  stir. 
We  looked  into  our  neighbor's  eyes. 

And  pitied  her — and  pitied  her. 

Mr.  Henderson  is  a  studious  reader  of  nearly  all  kinds  of  literature. 
The  life,  character  and  writings  of  ihc  late  Dr.  David  Livingstone  con- 
stitute him  his  nineteenth  century  hero.  Carlyle,  however,  is  his 
favorite  prose  writer,  and  Browning  and  Lowell  his  favorite  poets.  His 
own  poems  are  carefully  and  skillfully  written,  and  show  that  he  is 
l)ossessed  of  a  cultured  literary  taste  His  style  is  natural  and  unre- 
strained, and  the  characteristics  of  a  true  son  of  song  are  manifested 
in  all  of  his  writings.  Many  of  his  i)ieces  have  a  soft,  melodious 
cadence  with  them  whicli  is  very  pleasing.  Take  for  instance  his 
piece  entitled  "A  Song  of  Love." 

Love's  season  is  but  brief, 

So  they  say. 
It  opens  like  the  leaf, 

To  decay  ; 
Ah  !  wlII,  I  only  know 
The  long  years  come  and  go 
But  'tis  leaf  time  with  Love  ahvay  ! 

A  silver  cloud  is  Love, 

So  they  say. 
That  tloats  a  while  above. 

Then  away  ; 
Ah  !  well,  the  years  have  brought, 
Their  freight  of  care  and  thought. 
Yet  I  build  in  the  clouds  to-day. 


c6  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Uncertain  as  the  sea, 

So  they  say, 
Love  ever  will  be  free, 

Well-a-day  ! 
The  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Life's  ebb  and  flow  go  on, 
But  the  sea  is  the  same  for  aye. 

If  loves  do  fade  e'er  long, 

As  they  say, 
Yet  Love  is  true  and  strong, 

And  will  stay. 
The  leaf  and  cloud  and  tide 
Through  all  the  years  abide — 
Is  not  Love  longer  lived  than  the}-? 

Among  the  various  sonnets  which  Mr.  Henderson   has  composed, 

the  one  enlilled  "  Thomas   Carlyle  "  is  decidedly  the  best.     It  is  a 

scholarly  production,  and  bears  on  its  face  the  imprint  of  the  work  of 

a  master.     Tliere  have  been  numerous  sonnets  published  on  the  same 

subject,  but  the  jjresent  is  the  finest  that  has  come  under  our  notice 

so  far  : 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

(I'uried  at  Ecclcfechan). 

Yes,  it  was  meet  tliat  there  he  should  be  laid  ; 

Tlie  ^real  and  wise  beside  the  good  and  just — 

They  were  his  kindred  !  Nature's  "  dust  to  dust." 
The  tinal  law  had  honor  when  they  made 
His  bed,  noi  with  the  cliisel,  but  the  spade. 

Not  in  the  Abbey,  but  the  kirkj-ard  lone. 

His  mother-mould  takes  tenderlv  her  own, 
And  o'er  him  spreads  her  green,  all  sheltering  plaid. 
God  made  from  out  the  dust  of  Scottish  earth 

A  man  whose  spirit  was  th'  Almiglity's  breath  : 

The  moorland  breezes  shouted  at  his  birth. 
And  blew  brave  music  through  him  till  his  death  ! 
Knox,  Wallace,  Burns, — priest,  patriot,  and  bard, 
Woke  once  again,  sleep  now  in  yon  kirkyard. 

With  these  few  selections  from  the  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  Hender- 
son we  take  our  leave  of  him.  That  he  is  possessed  of  true  poetical 
gifts  none  will  dispute,  and  we  refer  those  of  our  readers,  who  desire 
to  obtain  a  collection  of  his  writings,  to  the  volume  just  published  by 
Messrs.  Cushings  &  Bailey,  Baltimore,  entitled  "  Poems,  Scottish  and 


DANIEL   MC  IN  TYRE   HENDERSON.  97 

American."  Reviewing  this  work  T/ie  Critic  (New  York),  says: 
"Happy  the  \)(i^\.  that  is  born  in  Scotland.  Perhaps  it  is  because  'the 
interesting  '  abounds  tliere;  from  whatever  cause  a  natural  grace  and 
ease,  a  true  feeling  for  the  music  of  verse,  a  close  sympathy  with 
nature,  and  a  warm  humanity,  seem  the  birthright  of  the  singer  sprung 
from  Scottish  soil.  All  these  characteristics  are  to  be  found  in  the 
collection  of  '  Poems,  Scottish  and  American,'  by  D.  M.  Henderson. 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  meet  a  little  book  so  sincere,  so  satisfying  within  its 
limits.  The  poet  longs,  under  the  bright  Southern  sky,  for  the  song 
of  the  skylark,  entering  the  Holy  of  Holies  in  the  far  blue  above;  he 
notes,  with  the  keen  eye  that  reads  the  sweet  meanings  of  nature,  the 
significance  of  the  giant  poplar  '  maimed,  but  a  giant  still,'  'rustling 
a  thankful  psalm,'  as  it  aspires  to  heaven  from  the  feverish  turmoil  of 
the  city.  Perfect  in  its  way  is  the  tenderness  of  'Rest  thee,  Bonnie 
Doo,'  a  lullaby  to  the  bonnie  bairnie  warm-folded  under  the  '  white 
plaidie  '  of  winter  by  Him  who  giveth  snow  like  wool.  Worthy  of  a 
compatriot  of  Burns  are  the  simple  song  '  Jeanie,  lass,  I  lo'e  thee,' and 
the  arch  lines  'Seekin'  Sympathy.'  In  a  loftier  tone  is  the  poem  on 
Carlyle.  It  is  not  needful  that  we  should  have  an  unqualified  admira- 
tion for  that  teacher,  in  order  to  appreciate  the  ring  of  Mr.  Hender- 
son's verses." 


f^%: 


DR.    JOHN    M.    HARPER. 

Such  sweet,  such  melting  strains! 
Their  soft  harmonious  cadence  rises  now, 
And  swells  in  solemn  grandeur  to  its  height! 
Now  sinks  to  mellow  notes — now  dies  away — 
But  leaves  its  thrilling  memory  on  my  ear! 

Sweet  as  the  note  of  a  bird  in  the  wildwood,  strongly  imbued  with 
patriotism,  fervent  in  religious  sentiment,  eloquent  in  thought,  pure  in 
expression,  and  noble  in  purpose;  such  form  a  few  of  the  character- 
istics of  the  muse  of  Dr.  John  M.  Harper,  the  Canadian  educationist 
and  author.  Many  of  his  principal  poems  are  of  considerable  length, 
displaying  both  skill  and  talent  in  their  construction,  while  glittering 
through  all  of  them,  like  stars  in  a  clear  midnight  sky,  are  metaphors 
of  rare  and  striking  beauty.  His  themes,  as  may  readily  be  inferred, 
embrace  a  wide  variety  of  subjects,  and  we  hesitate  somewhat  in 
deciding  as  to  which  of  his  pieces  are  the  most  suitable  to  include  in 
our  brief  sketch,  the  better  to  enable  our  readers  to  form  a  just  esti- 
mate of  his  intrinsic  merits  as  a  poet.  In  his  poem,  entitled  "  In 
Memoriam,"  for  instance  he  says: 

Man's  strength  is  weakness  in  the  face  of  God's; 

His  stinted  powers  are  weaker  than  his  will; 
He  plans;  and  yet  his  boldest  plan  forbodcs 

The  human  weakness  that  may  not  fulfil. 
'Tis  near  his  loved  ones  dying  that  he  knows — 
When  seeking  strength  from  every  hope  that  blows, 

When  all  the  tendrils  of  his  being  thrill — 
That  God  is  fate,  and  death  his  messenger, 
That  Christ  of  perfect  peace  is  still  the  harbinger. 

Ephemeral  shine  the  brightest  of  our  joys, 

Amid  the  clouds  that  lloat  across  our  sky; 
They're  but  the  golden  star-dust  heaven  employs 

To  beautify  man's  life  and  destiny. 
A  shadow  here  is  but  no  shadow  there: 
There  is  no  light  where  all  is  bright  and  fair: 

Joys  quenched  reveal  the  living  joys  that  lie 
Around  us — while  a  light  as  sweet  as  dawn 
Plays  peaceful  round  the  shadows  of  the  hope  that's  gone. 


DR.  JOHN  M.  HARPER.  99 


Lines  Jikc  these  are  not  the  idle  musings  of  a  mere  rhymist,  they  are 
the  finely  conceived  ideas  of  a  cultured  imagination  and  intellect,  in 
other  words  they  are  the  work  of  a  true  poet.  Among  Dr.  Harper's 
finest  efforts  are  a  group  of  i)oems  artistically  tied  together  under  the 
poetical  title  of  "  Lays  of  Auld  Lang  Syne."  Such  poems  as  "The 
Burgh's  Hells,"  "Sacrament  Sunday,"  "Auld  Jeames  and  his  Crack," 
"Johnstone  Landward,"  and  many  others  are  included  in  the  group, 
the  whole  forming  as  fine  a  collection  of  Scottish  poetry  as  one  would 
wish  to  read.     The  introduction  to  the  group  is  as  follows: 

My  n.itivc  land,  .i  debt  of  song  I  pay, 

A  debt  of  love,  that  lieth  on  my  soul, 
When  memory  draws  the  veil  of  bygone  day, 

And  olden  music  greets  the  lifting  scroll. 
A  tribute  to  thy  freedom's  faith  I  bring: 

The  piety  that  scents  thy  glebe  I  sing; 
Thy  purple  hills  whose  silver  mists  unroll 

The  waving  gold  of  dawn;  thy  pleasant  plains 
And  hawthorn  banks  and  braes  where  hamlet 
meekness  reigns. 

The  first  mentioned  poem  of  this  group  is  after  the  manner  of 
Burns's  "  Twa  Dogs,"  and  consists  of  over  four  hundred  and  fifty  lines, 
which  run  smoothly  and  harmoniously  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
The  preface  to  the  poem  explains  the  purpose  of  the  writer  thus:  "A 
little  while  ago  the  lieges  of  Johnstone,  in  discussing  the  true  owner- 
ship of  the  fine  bell  that  hangs  in  the  steeple  of  the  parish  church, 
were  found  indulging  in  that  wMrmth  of  expression  which  seems  to 
arise  so  naturally  in  discussions  over  local  affairs.  In  this  case  there 
were  two  well-defined  parties,  the  one  claiming,  from  facts  connected 
with  the  purchase  of  the  former  occupants  of  the  steeple,  that  the 
present  bell  is  the  property  of  the  town,  the  other  claiming  that  its 
ownership  is  vested  solely  in  the  trustees  of  the  church.  Now  that 
the  storm  is  over  the  following  verses  have  been  written  with  the 
simple  intention  of  crystallizing  the  discussion.  If  the  Doric  or  Scot- 
tish dialect  be,  indeed,  dying  out,  as  some  declare  it  is,  the  writer,  in 
making  use  of  it  as  a  literary  medium,  can  only  urge,  as  an  excuse  for 
his  temerity,  the  fact  that  much  of  the  discussion  must  necessarily 
have  been  conducted  in  Lowland  Scotch."  The  poem  then  opens 
with  a  description  of  the  vale  of  Cart,  and  from  this  we  obtain  a  pretty 
fair  idea  of  our  poet's  descriptive  powers: 


iob  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


'Tvvas  at  the  gloaming  of  a  springtide  day, 

While  sunset's  golden  locks  were  fringed  with  gray 

Beyond  the  western  slopes  of  Cartha's  vale, 

Beyond  the  isles  that  echo  ocean's  wail, 

While  yet  o'erhead  the  silvery  shadows  fell 

To  shroud  the  glory  of  the  day's  farewell— 

I  sought  the  silent  path  whose  slope  commands 

The  view  of  burgh  built  on  Houstoun's  lands— 

To  spend  an  hour  with  nature  in  repose 

Or  weave  a  silken  thought  in  rhyme  or  prose. 

The  moon,  all  radiant  at  the  sun's  retreat 

In  time  drew  near  her  beauty's  zenith-seat, 

And  threw  her  modest  veil  around  the  scene 

That  peaceful  glowed  amid  the  electric  sheen. 

The  giddy  stars  like  courtiers  unrestrained 

Danced  on  the  floor  of  heaven,  chaotic-stained, 

As  if  tliey  thought  their  merry  rays  alone 

Shed  light  enough  to  lustre  midnight's  throne. 

Amid  the  silence  of  midnight  the  prologue  of  the  poem  is  rung  out 
by  the  new  bell  in  this  manner: 

With  a  brave-hearted  roll  my  tongue  dares  to  toll 

And  dirl  a  dread  of  the  past  ; 
With  the  present  still  here,  I  shall  ring  out  a  cheer 

That  no  memory-cloud  shall  o'ercast  ; 
Neither  grumble  nor  groan,  neither  malice  nor  moan 

Shall  hinder  my  cheer-ringing  mirth. 
In  the  morn  of  my  pride,  all  care  I'll  deride 

As  1  roll  out  the  joy  of  my  birth. 

Let  other  bells  weep  generations  asleep. 

As  for  me  I  shall  ever  ring  joy  ; 
As  I  throb  in  my  steeple,  I'll  stir  up  the  people 

Full  moments  of  mirth  to  employ. 
So  hurrah  !  as  I  swing,  as  I  joyously  ring 

The  burghers  their  lives  to  fulfil, 
Let  me  banish  all  fear  as  their  spirits  I  cheer 

With  tones  that  all  honest  hearts  thrill. 

Afterward  there  appear  before  the  poet's  vision  the  ghosts  of  the 
two  old  bells  discussing  the  new  bell  and  its  prospect  in  life.  The 
following  is  a  good  example  of  the  pith  of  the  Scottish  dialect,  and 
illustrates  to  what  a  wonderful  extent  Dr.  Harper  is  master  of  his 
mother  tongue: 


DR.  JOHN  M.  JIARPER.  lOi 

Guid  e'en,  auld  grannie,  ncebour  mine, 
I  nccdna  spccr  wliat  ^^ars  ye  whine, 
Or  glower  sae  angry  thro'  your  mutch 
As  if  the  steeple  were  some  witch — 
As  if  ye'd  grip'd  yon  gommeril's  throat 
And  chirt  frac  him  iiis  dying  note  ; 
For  trutii  to  tell,  his  giddy  bouncing 
Would  set  auld  Job  himsel'  aflouncing, 
But  ne'er  ye  fash  your  thumb,  guidwife, 
He's  but  a  menscless  nyaffin  cuif, 
A  trashtrie-tritler  fu'  o'  win'. 
That  kens  nae  glory  save  in  din. 
For  us,  our  day  is  past,  'tis  true, 
For  lang's  the  time  since  we  were  new  ; 
But  then  experience  is  nae  vice 
Gin  sense  it  bring  as  virtue's  price  ; 
And  if  auld  age  has  cracked  us  baith 
Or  forced  us  else  to  don  ghost's  graith, 
Our  record's  guid  and  weel  worth  hearing 
By  a'  that  hae  for  guid  a  caring  ; 
While  as  for  boastin'  Tarn  up  yonder 
He'll  nocht  be  but  a  nine  day's  wonder. 

The  two  old  beldames  converse  for  some  time  in  the  most  friendly 
manner,  until  disagreeing  upon  some  point  of  local  history  their  con- 
versation breaks  out  into  angry  words.  'I'he  Insi  of  the  ghost's  words 
are  very  human  : 

Ha  I  ha  !  you  drab,  wha's  angry  noo  ? 
Mayhap  ye've  gi'en  my  grunt  a  grue  ; 
You  wise  folk  canna  bear  defeat 
But  burn  your  temper  wi'  its  heat, 
Tarn  yonder's  daft,  but  ye  are  crazy. 
Philosophy  hath  made  ye  hazy  I 

And  the  piece  winds  up  with  the  writer's  words: 

No  more  I  heard  beyond  a  dreadful  whish 
As  if  the  ghosts  did  then  their  anger  push 
To  close  attack.   An  eerie  moment  passed. 
And  then  I  shuddering  rose,  downcast 
With  fears,  and  shivering  in  the  midnight  cold. 
Determined  ne'er  again  to  be  so  bold 
As  wander  near  the  haunts  of  spirit  bells 
That  show  the  weakness  human  hate  reveals. 


102  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Glancing  over  the  smaller  poems  in  the  group,  "  To  a  Sprig  of 
Heather  "  comes  peeping  forth,  sweet  in  its  simple  beauty,  and  charm- 
ing us  with  its  fragrance  of  other  days. 

My  bonnie  spray  o'  pink  and  green, 

That  breathes  the  bloom  o'  Scotia's  braes, 
Your  tiny  blossoms  blink  their  e'en, 

To  gie  me  glimpse  o'  ither  days — 
The  days  when  youth  o'er-ran  the  hills, 

A-daffin'  wi'  the  life  that's  free, 
'Mid  muirland  music,  and  the  rills 

That  sing  their  psalm  o'  liberty. 

Your  wee  bit  threads  o'  crimpit  fringe 

Ance  shed  their  fragrance  in  the  glen, 
Whaur  silence  hears  the  burnie  bringe, 

And  o'er  the  the  scaur  its  prattle  sen': 
And  now  your  bonnie  tlow'rets  blink. 

To  mind  me  o'  the  burnie's  sang. 
To  move  my  heart  perchance  to  think 

O'  mirth  that  thro'  the  bygane  rang. 

E'rewhile  the  hillside  breezes  kiss'd 

The  dew-drops  frae  your  coronet, 
Or  made  you  smile  as  thro'  the  mist 

The  peep  o'  day  dispelled  the  wet  : 
And  now  your  bloom's  the  token  sweet 

O'  freenship  in  a  brither's  heart. 
That  smiles  to  see  our  cares  retreat, 

When  freenship  acts  a  brither's  part. 

Nor  must  we  overlook  another  little  poem  which  is  hidden  behind 
the  "Sprig  of  Heather."  It  is  entitled  "  Woo'd  and  Wed,"  and  it  is 
seldom  that  we  come  across  a  piece  so  brief  and  yet  so  daintily  clothed 
in  the  sweet  language  of  the  true  poet.  This,  with  the  former  piece 
and  many  others  of  our  author's  lyrics,  lias  been  set  to  music. 

The  east  wind  blustered  in  her  car, 

The  daisy  shuddering  drooped  her  head, 
Such  wooing  pinched  her  heart  with  fear, 

She  closed  her  eye  and  said  : 
"  No  lover  true  would  think  to  harm 

A  wee  bit  thing  like  modest  me  ; 
I'll  crouch  me  down  and  keep  me  warm 

Till  summer  sets  me  free." 
*  «  *  * 


DR.  JOHN  M.  HARPER.  103 

Tlic  zcph)'r  whispered  though  her  hair, 

The  daisy  blushing  coyly  smiled, 
She  thought  to  say,  "  IIow  do  you  dare?" 

His  sighs  lier  tlioughts  beguiled. 
He  kissed  her  crown,  and  crimson  lips, 

Her  tresses  trembled  on  his  crest, 
But  dew-drops  stained  her  petal  tips 

When  yEol  drove  him  west. 


The  bloom  of  autumn  woo'd  her  heart, 

The  daisy  gave  her  heart  away. 
Such  loves  as  theirs  true  joys  impart, 

Their  life  was  golden  day, 
No  thought  how  long  such  love  could  last, 

'Twas  his  upon  her  heart  to  lie, 
Her  matron  hopes  no  shadow  cast 

That  love  would  ever  die. 

Among  Dr.  Harper's  more  serious  pieces  we  have  a  special  liking 
for  the  one  entitled  "  The  Old  Graveyard."  There  is  something  of 
the  quaintness  and  pathos  of  Wordsworth  embodied  in  each  verse,  the 
poem  altogether  being  full  of  those  human  sym]jalliies  that  make  tlie 
world  of  one  kin.     We  append  it  herewith: 

THE  OLD  GRAVEYARD. 


The  summer's  day  is  sinking  fast. 

The  gloaming  weaves  its  pall. 
As  shadows  weird  the  willows  cast 

Beyond  the  broken  wall. 
And  the  tombstones  gray  like  sentinels  rise. 
To  guard  the  dust  that  'ncath  them  lies. 

The  whispering  breezes  solenui  bear 

A  requiem  knell-intoned. 
As  the  steeple's  throbs  alarm  the  air. 

And  through  the  valle)'  sound, 
To  bid  the  wear}'  seek  repose. 
When  dies  the  day  at  twilight's  close. 

Then  silken  silence  murmurs  rest, 
And  the  peace  that  reigns  supreme 

Seems  but  awaiting  God's  behest. 
To  wake  it  from  its  dream. 

While  yet  it  soothes  the  hearts  that  weep 

Lament  for  those  that  lie  asleep. 


104  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

The  moon,  deciphering  virtue's  claims 

To  deeds  of  duty  done 
Illumes  anew  the  graven  names, 

That  time  hath  not  o'ergrown, 
Though  the  deeds  of  all  are  in  the  book, 
Where  time  hath  never  dared  to  look. 

Five  generations  slumber  here, 

Beneath  these  crowding  mounds. 
And  still  their  spirits  hover  near. 

As  memory  makes  its  rounds — 
When  widowed  love  here  finds  retreat. 
And  sympathetic  echoes  meet. 

The  first  to  find  their  rest  were  those 

Who  saw  the  hamlet's  birth. 
When  hum  of  industrj'  arose, 

To  blend  with  rural  mirth — 
When  progress  first  beheld  its  dawn. 
Near  by  the  river's  virgin  lawn. 

But  now  the  glebe  a  surfeit  knows 

Though  scarce  a  century  old. 
And  undisturbed  the  rank  grass  grows 

Above  the  tear  dewed  mould. 
While  men  in  thousands  claim  it  theirs, 
Where  lie  their  kindred  and  their  tears. 

And  oft  'tis  here  we  learn  to  die. 

As  sorrow  sifts  the  soul, 
When  love's  sweet  longings  seem  to  sigh. 

And  with  our  grief  condole — 
To  make  us  feel  what  joy  it  is 
To  know  that  death  makes  all  things  his. 

For  if  tradition  reads  its  lore 

In  lines  of  dismal  light. 
Our  higher  hopes  the  tints  restore 

To  dissipate  the  night — 
To  courage  us  to  think  of  death 
A  change  beatified  by  faith. 

Among  our  poet's  sonnets,  of  which,  by  the  way,  there  are  a  very 
great  number,  we  come  upon  many  that  are  of  the  very  highest  order 
of  merit.     Such,  for  instance,  are  the  following: 


DK.  JOHN  M.  HARPER.  105 


TO  THE  TRUE  POET. 


Sweet  as  the  sheen  the  dew-drops  sip  at  dawn 
Thy  purity  of  song  hath  laved  my  heart, 

The  rhythm  of  its  light  hath  inward  shone 
To  bid  the  sliadows  from  my  soul  depart. 

As  soars  the  lark  be)'ond  the  fragrant  mead 
To  bear  the  breath  of  wild  flowers  to  the  skies, 
'Tis  his  to  greet  the  sphere  that  purifies 

Earth's  sweetness  with  its  own;  and  scattering  seed 
Of  scented  tnitli  upborne  upon  the  wing 

Of  song,  'tis  thine  to  seek  an  upper  light 

Beyond  life's  clouds,  while  we  upgazing  sing 

A  timid  greeting  to  thy  venturous  flight, 

And  long  to  bathe  our  being  in  the  air 

Where  none  but  thee  and  such  sweet  singers  dare. 

LAW  AND  LOVE. 


How  pleasant  'tis  to  watch  the  sweet-mouthed  tide 

Wave  over  wavelet  kiss  the  golden  sands, 
Where,  coyly  moored,  the  dancing  skiffs  deride 

Its  silvery  crest  or  where  the  chubby  hands 
Of  childhood  dare  its  frolic  and  embrace — 

To  find  too  late  its  foam  a  sackcloth  wreath. 
Even  so  in  life,  when  charmed  with  virtue's  face, 

We  often  learn  how  danger  lurks  beneath 
For  venturous  love  that  heeds  not  law's  restraint. 

When  morning's  sweetness,  noonday  steals  away 
And  night  distils  from  beauty's  breath  the  taint 

That  marks  the  bloom  of  nature,  nature's  prey, 
'Tis  then  we  ask  why  law  hath  love  betrayed 
Or  why  in  vain  our  love  to  law  hath  prayed  ? 

Dr.  Harper  is  President  of  the  Quebec  St.  Andrew's  Society,  an 
association  which  has  long  and  faithfully  performed  its  mission  of 
caring  for  the  needy.  He  is  the  author  of  several  odes  and  poems  in 
connection  with  the  anniversary  of  their  patron  saint,  and  these  have 
been  highly  spoken  of  and  are  warmly  received  by  his  countrymen 
everywhere.  We  give  as  a  specimen  of  his  work  in  this  connection 
one  of  his  poems  which  is  written  in  the  Doric  and  entitled  : 


lo6  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


ST.  ANDREW'S  DAY. 


St.  Andrew's  Cross — nae  Cross  of  Fire 
That  bids  the  sons  of  Celtic  sire 

Their  cla3'mores  furious  draw — 
With  sympathetic  scroll  unfurled, 
Hath  borne  its  summons  roun'  the  world, 

To  greet  us  ane  and  a'; 
For  Scotland  yet  anither  year 

Hath  added  to  her  fame, 
And  friends  forgather  far  and  near 

In  honor  of  her  name  ; 

And  cheerfu'  nor  fearfu' 

Of  hindrance  to  our  mirth, 

We  time  then  our  rhyme  then 
In  honour  of  her  worth. 

A-lowe  with  s3'mphonies  of  hame 
Our  modest  daffin'  thinks  nae  shame 

To  woo  the  winsome  past ; 
Our  noblest  joy's  an  honest  pride 
In  sires,  whase  deeds  heroic  guide 

Our  faith  still  firm  and  fast ; 
The  liberty  our  forbears  prized, 

Though  wounded  oft  and  torn, 
Now  wears  content  its  scars,  baptized 

With  tears  for  those  forlorn. 

And  binds  a",  to  kinds  a' 

A  helping  hand  to  len' — 

To  strengthen  and  brengthen 
The  britherhood  of  men. 

To  baud  our  hearts  in  humble  vein 
Fate  whiles  may  single  out  our  ain 

To  sere  with  sorrow's  fire, 
Or,  in  disdain,  may  make  a  ba' 
Of  some  puir  brither,  gin  he  fa' 

In  Clootie's  treacherous  mire  ; 
But  Scotia  ne'er  can  lose  her  pride, 

Though  fate  should  seem  her  foe, 
Gin  Scotsmen  share,  whate'er  betide. 

Their  joy  with  ithers'  woe, 

To  praj'  for,  ilk'  day  for 

The  weaker  of  our  kind, 

Sustaining,  ne'er  paining 

The  broken  hearts  they  bind. 


DR.  JOHN  M.  HARPER.  107 

The  echoes  of  a  strife  at  times 

Blends  discord  with  the  Sabbath  chimes 

Of  some  sweet  highland  glen, 
When  lording's  heel  presumes  to  bruise 
The  liberty  that  aye  embues 

God's  bairns  to  make  them  men  ; 
But  manhood  dares  its  poean  raise 

To  sanctify  the  strife, 
And  puts  to  shame  the  tyrant's  craze 

That  mars  the  sweets  of  life  ; 

For  blot  ne'er,  true  Scot  ne'er 
Shall  thole  upon  the  shield 

That  broadly  and  proudly 

Protects  the  puir  man's  bield. 

A  tribute  to  our  patron  saint  I 
Love  for  the  hearts  that  never  faint 

In  doing  deeds  of  love  ! 
Their  pibroch  is  compassion's  call 
That  sweetens  hate  and  poortith's  thrall: 

Their  gospel's  from  above  : 
Theirs  is  the  anthem  Andrew  taught — 

Fair  virtue's  holiest  hymn  ; 
Theirs  is  the  love  that  life  begot 

When  liberty  burned  dim  : 

Our  pride  tlien  may  bide  then 
By  Scotia's  proudest  aim — 

To  care  for  and  dare  for 

The  love  that  hallows  hame. 

The  subject  of  our  sketch  also  holds  tl\e  honorable  position  of  Vice- 
President  of  the  Quebec  Literary  and  Historical  Society.  He  has  paid 
many  a  glowing  tribute  in  verse  to  the  genius  of  Burns,  and  we  regret 
that  these  addresses  are  generally  of  so  lengthy  a  character  that  we  are 
unable  to  reproduce  one  here.  We  presume  that  it  is  unnecessary  for 
us  to  refer  to  his  love  for  "The  Land  of  the  Tartan."  He  reveres 
its  every  nook  and  corner,  and  is  an  authority  on  all  matters  pertain- 
ing to  its  history,  customs  or  literature.  The  land  where  the  sw^ord  of 
freedom  has  flashed  in  the  hands  of  Wallace  and  Bruce,  where  the 
voices  of  Knox,  Guthrie  and  Chalmers  have  rung  out  with  gospel 
truths  that  have  echoed  around  the  world,  the  birthplace  of  poets, 
philosoi)hers,  statesmen  and  luindreds  of  intellectual  celebrities,  shall 
only  become  obliterated  from  his  thoughts  when  life  itself  becomes 
extinct: 


loS  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Hurrah  for  auld  Scotland,  the  land  o'  the  heather, 
Whase  fragrance  has  scented  our  hearts  fond  o'  hame, 

Tis  meet  when  her  bairns  in  their  friendships  forgether 
To  lilt  the  sweet  memories  that  halo  her  name. 

Hurrah  for  auld  Scotland,  the  land  o'  the  thistle, 
Whase  motto  we  hold  as  the  shield  o'  her  fame; 

Let  us  sing  mid  our  cheer  o'  the  men  and  the  muscle 
That  flushed  freedom's  foes  wi'  terror  and  shame. 

Yes,  hip,  hip  hurrah!  for  the  land  o'  our  forbears, 
Whase  brave  deeds  bedizzen  ilk  muirland  and  glen! 

Let  us  think  o'  their  hardships  mid  life's  many  warfares 
And  face  all  our  foes  like  brave-hearted  men. 

John  Murdoch  Harper  was  born  at  Johnstone,  in  Renfrewshire  on 
the  tenth  of  February,  1845.  He  was  reared  amid  comfortable  sur- 
roundings and  early  gave  evidence  of  being  in  possession  of  bright 
intellectual  qualities.  He  received  the  rudiments  of  his  education  at 
the  parish  school,  from  whence  he  went  to  the  Glasgow  E.  C.  Training 
College,  which  he  entered  as  a  Queen's  scholar  of  the  first  rank.  He 
left  Scotland  for  Canada  in  1867,  and  after  several  years'  residence  in 
his  adopted  land  became  a  graduate  of  Queen's  University.  A  few 
years  later  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy  was  conferred  upon 
him  by  the  Illinois  University.  Since  that  time  he  has  devoted  him- 
self to  educational  pursuits,  and  he  has  achieved  both  honor  and  dis- 
tinction throughout  the  Dominion  of  Canada  as  an  instructor  and  head 
of  educational  institutions.  He  is  at  present  Inspector  of  Superior 
Schools  for  the  Province  of  Quebec,  having  been  for  several  years 
Rector  of  the  Quebec  High  School,  and  for  a  season  interim  Professor 
of  Mathematics  in  Morrin  College.  He  is  also  Secretary  of  the  Board 
of  School  Commissioners  and  Superintendent  ot  the  Quebec  City 
Schools. 

He  has  written  and  compiled  various  school  text  books  and  in  con- 
nection with  general  literature  he  is  the  author  of  historical  and  bio- 
graphical sketches,  essays,  novels,  elc,  all  of  which  have  been  pub- 
lished from  time  to  time.  He  was  for  many  years  editorial  writer  for 
no  less  than  three  weekly  newspapers,  and  he  is  now  literary  editor  of 
tae  Educational  Record  of  Quebec.  Encomiums  of  a  flattering  nature 
have  frec^uently  been  passed  on  his  i)ovvers  as  a  lecturer  and  public 
speaker.     He  numbers  among  his  personal  friends  many  prominent 


DR.  JOHN  M.  HARPER.  109 

authors  and  scholars   of  the  day,   and  with  one  of  his    sonnets    of 
sympathy  to  a  brother  poet  we  will  conclude  our  sketch: 

A  MOTHER'S  CROWN. 

Inscribed,  with  warm  sympathy,  to  Duncan  MacGregor  Crcrar,  on 
the  occasion  o(  his  mother's  death. 

A  psalm  of  sympathy  our  hearts  intone 

To  soothe  the  wail  of  sorrow's  anthem  weird 
That  wrings  the  soul  of  filial  love.     She's  gone! 

She  sleeps  the  sleep  fair  virtue  never  feared, 
Howe'er  the  solemn  change  draws  tears  from  him 

Who  was  not  near  to  see  her  fall  asleep. 
The  lamp  of  love  and  sweetness  ne'er  waxed  dim 

That  lit  tlie  chamber  of  her  life,  when  deep 
Within  her  children's  souls  she  sought  to  plait 

The  golden  threads  of  truth — to  beautify 
With  woof  of  faith  the  yawning  warp  of  fate. 

And  on  it  fresco  liowers  that  never  die. 
Her  sleep  immortalizes  love.     The  crown 

She  wears,  eternal  shines  a  wreath  of  light. 
The  lustre  of  her  saintship  streameth  down 

In  diamond  rays  to  diive  away  our  niglit 
Of  doubt — to  beckon  us  from  frailt)''s  fears, 
And  melt  in  love  the  mist  of  mortal  tears. 


--»<-e>§^^^<^— 


ROBERT    WHITTET. 

While  he  lives, 
To  know  no  bliss  but  that  which  virtue  gives, 
And  when  he  dies,  to  leave  a  lofty  name, 
A  light,  a  landmark  on  the  cliffs  of  fame. 

When  Robert  Whittet  in  1882  published  his  "Brighter  Side  of 
Suffering  and  Other  Poems,"  he  added  a  work  to  the  poetical  litera- 
ture of  America  which  will  perpetuate  his  memory  for  many  years  to 
come.  Taken  in  whole  or  in  part,  it  is  a  beautiful  and  finely  conceived 
production,  and  it  deserves  special  consideration  at  our  hands,  as  it 
forms  the  longest  poem  so  far  issued  by  a  Scottish  American  poet. 
Rich  in  metaphorical  language,  it  is  also  sweet  in  expression,  while  a 
deeply  religious  sentiment,  and  a  quiet,  philosophic  pathos  pervades 
its  every  page.  "In  point  of  composition,"  says  a  well-known  Scot- 
tish writer,  "  it  has  all  that  spontaneity  and  unbroken  connection 
which  are  true  indications  of  a  full  emotional  nature,  and  a  mind  cul- 
tured to  a  fine  vocal  utterance.  *  *  *  The  most  casual 
reader  cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  the  range  of  subjects  suggested  in 
every  page  of  Mr.  Whittet's  book,  his  wealtli  of  imagery,  his  keen 
moral  perception,  and  above  all,  that  fine  spiritual  eye  that  sees  good 
in  everything,  and  marks  his  principal  work  as  one  of  a  kind  which  we 
not  only  enjoy  as  a  rich  intellectual  treat,  but  as  one  that  tends  to 
lighten  the  burdens  of  life,  by  painting  in  colors  of  unfading  bright- 
ness the  better  side  of  human  suffering." 

The  poem  which  gives  the  title  to  ilic  work  occupies  two  hundred 
and  fifty-one  pages,  and  is  divided  into  seven  chapters.  Chapter  one 
is  entitled  "Suffering  in  Nature,"  and,  after  describing  the  various 
beauties  of  nature,  shows  how  these  only  attain  a  higher  type  of  beauty 
by  passing  through  the  process  of  decay.  Chai)ter  second  is  devoted 
to  "National   Liberty,  the  Fruit  of  Suffering,"  and   illustrates  how 


ROBERT    VVIIITTET.  iii 

liberty,  both  civil  and  religious,  have  been  secured  through  suffering. 
Chapter  three  refers  to  "  Suffering  in  the  individual  life  of  man,"  which, 
being  universal,  creates  a  common  sympathy.  Chapters  four  and  five 
deal  with  "Suffering  in  individual  experience;"  chapter  six  with  "The 
highest  concejjtion  of  suffering" — suffering  for  others — and  chapter 
seven  is  a  summary  of  the  whole,  and  proves  that  the  suffering  and 
unsatisfactory  nature  of  the  present  life  implies  a  better  life  to  come. 
As  none  are  exempt  from  suffering,  so  none  are  forgotten  in  God's 
arrangements  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  suffering  in  a  future  state  of  perfect 
happiness. 

It  will  readily  be  seen  from  this  brief  synopsis  of  the  work  that  it  is 
one  of  considerable  imjiortance.  It  is  of  too  lengthy  a  nature  to  allow 
of  our  making  sufficient  ([uotations  from  it  that  would  convey  to  the 
reader  a  true  idea  of  its  meritorious  character,  and  we  will  therefore 
content  ourselves  with  one  extract  from  chapter  four.  Here  the 
author  demonstrates  how  God's  purposes  are  accomplished  alike  in 
the  babe  and  in  the  life  of  three-score-and-ten: 

But  ah!  what  varied  ends,  what  varied  years, 

Are  strangely  meted  out  as  each  one's  line! 

The  baby  life,  that,  like  a  sunbeam's  glint 

Is  cast  one  moment  o'er  the  household  heart, 

As  if  the  angelic  messengers  who  brought 

Tarried  one  moment  at  the  open  door 

Until  a  greeting  and  a  parting — both 

Enwrapped  in  one  fond  kiss — were  given,  and  then 

Took  back  the  gift  that  hope  had  thought  would  stay! 

And  our  fathers,  bent  with  reverent  age, 

Have  only  had  a  larger  handful  given 

Of  that  unmeasured  time  they've  but  begun — 

The  first  gray  dawn  of  immortality; 

Their  guardians  but  a  little  longer  wait, 

To  let  earth's  greetings  be  enjoyed  awhile, 

And  farewell  be  a  little  oftcner  said: 

But  yet  infinite  wisdom,  that  can  find 

Its  ends  accomplished  in  each  atom's  breath. 

Whose  cloud-capped  mountains  are  of  sand-grains  Viuilt, 

And  ocean  but  a  dew-drop  multiplied, 

Has  furnished  all  He  first  designed  within 

The  babe's  short  span,  or  three-score  3'ears  and  ten. 

Mr.  Whittet  dedicates  his  work  to  "My  wife,  whose  loving  self- 
sacrifice  has  met  and  warded  many  of  our  mutual  sufterings,  and  to 


112  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


our  children,  whose  dutiful  affection  has  been  a  solace  in  seasons  of 
care  and  anxiety."  In  a  pleasing  prefatory  prelude,  which  another 
poet  characterizes  as  being  "  musical  as  the  warble  of  a  wild  bird  at 
the  dawn,"  he  says: 

One  linnet's  note  the  more  or  less 

Within  the  wildwood's  minstrelsy, 
Can  neither  raise  nor  aught  depress 

The  sense  of  joyous  revelrj'. 

And  yet  each  linnet  from  the  spray 

His  swelling  notes  melodious  flings, 
And  pipes  his  own  sweet  roundelay 

Heedless  of  how  another  sings. 

He  has  a  song  'tis  his  to  sing 

And  that  he  sings  right  earnestly, 
And  waiteth  not  for  anything 

To  urge  his  heart  to  minstrelsy. 

The  skylark  sings  where  bliss  belongs, 

That  song  an  ampler  field  be  given; 
Takes  to  the  clouds  his  seraph  songs — 

Throws  half  to  earth  and  half  to  heaven. 

And  some  sweet  songster,  near  alight 

On  thorny  perch,  amid  the  throng. 
Gives  to  the  passing  heart  delight. 

And  cheers  it  with  a  joyous  song. 

So  are  the  songs  that  poets  sing 

Within  secluded  quiet  retreat, 
But  single  echoed  notes,  that  bring 

Their  quota  for  a  choir  complete. 

Each  pipes  his  own  peculiar  strain, 

On  artful  lute  or  simple  reed, 
And  sings,  and  sings,  and  sings  again. 

To  satisfy  his  own  heart's  need. 

Yet  may  some  raptured  thought  out-reach 

Far,  far  the  poet's  dream  above, 
And  some  faint  wavering  heart  beseech 

To  deeds  of  grace,  and  hope,  and  love. 

To  sing  has  given  one  heart  employ, 

And  thus  did  end  enough  fulfil; 
but  if,  resung,  another's  joy 
.  Is  more  enlarged,  'twere  better  still. 


^ROBERT    WHITTET.  113 

And  so,  self  pleased,  I  give  the  song 
That's  kept  my  own  past  clear  and  bright, 

If  that,  perchance,  some  other  tongue 
May  lift  the  lilt,  and  find  delight. 

Interwoven  in  " 'I'he  IJrighler  Side  of  Suffering  "  arc  smaller  poems 

of  great  beauty  and  worth.     We  give  as  a  specimen  of  these  the  one 

entitled: 

HOME  LOVE. 


Oh!  love  is  like  a  summer  day, 

When  sunny  pleasures  crowd; 
Wlu  n  brightest  shines  the  silver  ray 

Nearer  the  thunder  cloud; 
But  mother's  love  and  father's  care. 

Where'er  our  footsteps  roam. 
Still  make  our  hearts  the  sunshine  share 
Of  love,  sweet  love  at  home! 
O  home-love!  sweet  home-love! 
There's  no  love  like  home-love; 
Though  all  else  may  faithless  prove, 
Leahy's  aye  in  home-love. 

O'er  the  prairie  waste  the  wanderer 

Plods  with  laggard  step  alone; 
On  the  billow  toss'd,  the  mariner 

Treads  his  watch,  even  starlight  gone; 
And  from  whence,  to  such  ones  weary. 

Can  a  sweeter  comfort  come. 
Than  to  know  that  hearts  sit  dreary, 
For  their  sakes,  far,  far,  at  home? 
O  home-love!  sweet  home-love! 
There's  no  love  like  home-love; 
Wander  where  our  footsteps  may, 
We  cherish  still  our  home-love. 

The  bustling  world  to  some  is  joy, 

Or  dreams  of  golden  gain — 
What  loved  ones  gone  would  deem  a  toy, 

Perhaps  estecin  as  pain! 
When  to  the  mind,  'mid  care  and  strife, 

No  resting-place  can  come. 
The  balm  for  every  ill  of  life 
Is  surest  found  at  home. 
O  home-love!  sweet  home-love! 
There's  no  love  like  home-love; 
The  sweetest  rest  for  aching  breast 
Is  the  couch  of  home-love. 


114  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


As  where  the  purest  light  is  given 

The  brighter  are  the  flowers, 
So  when  the  life  is  likest  heaven 

The  purest  jo}'  is  ours; 
And  thoughts  of  highest  bliss  are  bound 

B}'  heaven's  unclouded  dome, 
And  most  of  heaven  on  earth  is  found 
Around  the  hearth  at  home. 
O  home-love!  sweet  home-love! 
There's  no  love  like  home-love; 
The  purest — best — the  sweetest  zest, 
Is  surely  found  in  home-love. 

But  ah!  beside  the  love  of  heaven, 

Earth's  best  we  dare  not  name, 
For  there  the  lovers'  hearts,  unriven, 

Are  changeless  and  the  same; 
But  still  earth's  dearest,  tcnderest  tics 
Nearest  to  heaven's  standard  come, 
Where'er  the  barb  of  grief  and  sighs 
Are  solaced  best — at  home! 

0  home-love!  sweet  home-love! 
The  purest  love  is  home-love; 
Though  all  else  may  faithless  prove 
Faithful  aye  is  home-love. 


Passing  from  "  The  Brighter  Side  of  Suffering  "  we  find  that  the 
rest  of  the  volume  (one  hundred  and  thirty-three  pages)  comprises  a 
collection  of  poems  by  the  author  on  various  subjects.  Among  thenu 
'Foibles,"  "The  Kirk  and  State,"  "A  Union  Question,"  "Thought," 
"After  the  Funeral,"  "The  Ingle  Side,"  "The  Daisies,"  and  numer- 
ous others,  are  all  readable  and  talented  compositions.  There  are 
also  a  few  sonnets  displaying  considerable  merit.  Take  the  following 
one  for  instance: 

MY  BOOKS. 


I  have  had  friends  whose  friendship  died  away. 

And  some,  diseased  by  selfishness,  a  day 

Was  all  their  little  life  of  love;  some  wane 

Or  wax  as  circumstances  move;  the  main 

Of  all  arc  fickle  as  the  cloud-swept  skies, 

Or  mists  that  o'er  the  mountain-tops  arise; 

But  I  have  friends  within  my  own  home  bower 

Whose  love  no  season  witiiurs:  yet,  no  flower 

Can  match  tlicir  sweetness;  thcir's  is  far  above 

The  wayward  constancy  of  human  love: 

They  are  my  teachers  unto  trutii  sublime, 

And  give  for  patterns  hero-men  of  lime; 

Riglit  noble  friends  are  they — my  books — whose  bloom 

Sheds  joy  o'er  life  from  manhood  to  the  tomb. 


ROBERT    WIIITTET.  115 


In  addition  to  his  English  poems,  Mr.  Whittct  has  wisely  included 
in  his  volume  a  number  of  his  pieces  that  are  written  in  the  Doric. 
They  are  all  of  a  graceful  and  tender  character.  Referring  to  them 
in  his  preface  he  says  :  "  To  his  friends  on  the  American  side  of  the 
Atlantic  the  writer  owes  an  apology  for  having  inserted  so  many  pieces 
written  in  the  Scottish  dialect.  He  trusts  they  may  deem  it  a  suffi- 
cient excuse  that,  though  resident  among  them  a  good  many  years, 
and  the  recipient  of  many  kindnesses,  yet  the  recollections  of  the  old 
home  and  the  friends  that  are  very  dear,  and  the  idiom  of  his  boyhood 
still  remains  the  most  expressive,  and  he  loves  it  and  everything 
Scottish  with  all  tlic  stubborn  tenacity  of  his  countrymen.  He  has, 
however,  toned  down  much  of  the  peculiar  orthography,  that  they  may 
be  the  more  easily  intelligible  to  the  American  reader."  We  quote  as 
a  specimen  of  these  Scottish  musings: 

THE  FROZEN  BURN. 


O  whare  is  the  wee  brook  that  danced  through  the  valley, 
Wlia's  muiiiuir  at  uhiainiti'  sae  sweet  was  to  me  ? 

Or  whare  are  the  gowans  that  decked  a'  the  alley, 
And  gae  us,  when  bairnies,  in  summer  sic  glee? 

O  cauld  cam'  the  rude  blast  that  blew  frae  the  wild  hills, 
And  keen  bit  the  hoar  frost  and  iiurce  drave  the  snaw. 

And  they  plucked  a'  the  sweet  flowers  that  basket  the  wee  rills. 
And  sealed  up  the  burnie's  wee  wavelets  and  a'. 

But  spring  soon  will  come  wi'  its  buds  and  its  blossoms; 

The  waving  young  leaflets  will  dead  ilka  tree, 
The  birdies'  sweet  love  note  will  thrill  frae  their  bosoms. 

And  this  snaw-covered  desert  an  Eden  will  be. 

The  wee  flowers  will  peep  up  their  heads  by  the  burnic, 
And  its  waters  will  dance  in  the  sunbeams  again, 

Ilk  thing  that  has  life  in't  will  flourish  and  charm  ye. 
When  the  life  now  entombed  shall  have  burst  its  ice  chain. 

Sac  man,  like  the  burnie  when  summer  is  glowing. 
Glides  on  in  his  rapture,  free,  lightsome  and  gay; 

But  life  has  its  winter,  and  toward  us  'tis  flowing, 
And  soon  will  its  rude  breath  freeze  us  in  the  clay. 

But  there  is  a  summer  the  soul  kens  is  comin'. 
When  life  to  those  temples  anew  will  be  given; 

Then  fret  nae,  but  cheer  ye,  and  comfort  your  gloamin' — 
The  grave  has  but  planted  the  flowerets  for  heaven. 


ii6  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


The  volume  concludes  with  a  series  of  poems,  entitled  "  Sabbath 
Day  Communings."  These  are  the  outpourings  of  a  sincerely  Chris- 
tian spirit,  and  they  form  as  fine  a  collection  of  short  religious  pieces 
as  we  have  ever  read.     The  concluding  one  is  as  follows: 

HOME  SHOULD  BE  BEAUTIFUL. 


God  has  reserved  for  us  a  home — 

His  heaven — when  earthly  things  are  done, 

Its  golden  streets,  its  rainbow  dome. 

He  keeps  secure  till  life  has  run; 

And  while  time's  gliding  moments  roll 

Ceaseless  to  the  glorious  goal, 

He  girds  us  daily  witli  His  love; 

He's  made  our  earth  a  joyous  bower, 

Full  plenish6d  with  fruit  and  tfower, 

And  over  all  revealed — (that  we 

May  strive  to  copy  faithfully) — 

The  pattern  of  His  home  above! 

Then  be  it  ours,  while  life  is  given, 

To  make  earth's  home  like  that  of  heaven! 

Mr.  Whittet  is  a  native  of  Perth,  where  he  was  born  in  1829.     On 
completing  his  education  he  was  sent  to  learn  the  printing  trade,  and 
after  working  for  some  years  in  Aberdeen  and  Edinburgh  returned  to 
Perth,  where  he  set  up  in  business  for  himself.    Though  in  this  reason- 
ably successful,  yet  the  strain  of  excessive  competition  was  always  a 
jarring  element  to  his  sensibilities,  and    induced  a  desire  for  relief^ 
which  developed  into  a  determination  to  emigrate  and  seek  a  quieter 
life  in  rural  occupation  in  this  country.     In  1869  he  purchased  a  plan- 
tation of  some  four  hundred  acres  in  Virginia,  close  by  the  old  city  of 
Williamsburg,  and  in  scenes  made  historic  by  the  struggles  of  the  first 
settlers  on  this  great  continent;  but  the  venture  proved — as  one  less 
possessed  of  the  sentiment  of  an  ideal  life  might  have  expected — a 
disaster,  and  he  regretfully  retreated  to  his  old  occupation,  in  the  city 
of  Richmond,  where  he  still  labors,  mostly  in  printing  and  publishing, 
under  contract,  the  papers  and  literattire  for  tlie  Sunday-schools  of 
the  Presbyterian   Church    South.     This   business   has   since   become 
more  largely  developed,  and  Mr.  Whittet  is  now  well  known  through- 
out the  South  as  the  senior  partner  in  the  publishing  firm  of  Messrs^ 
Whittet  &  Shepperson.     He  is  a  warm-hearted  Scotsman,  and  he  has 
won  his  way  to  the  front  by  his  energy,  perseverance  and  sturdy  Scot- 
tish independence.     He  has  been  blessed  witli  poetical  gifts  of  the 
highest  order,  and  he  holds  an  uniiueslionable  right  to  the  title  of  a 
true  poet. 


WILLIAM    MACDONALD    WOOD. 

Though  triy  as  mirth,  as  curious  though  sedate; 
As  elegance  polite,  as  power  elate; 
Profound  as  reason,  and  as  justice  clear; 
Soft  as  compassion,  yet  as  truth  severe. 

The  Brooklyn  Daily  Times  has  enjoyed  a  prosperous  career  since 
it  was  established  in  1848.  Its  present  editor,  Mr.  William  Macdonald 
Wood,  is  a  native  of  Edinburgh.  He  was  born  in  1847.  Hi^  father, 
James  Wood,  followed  the  occupation  of  a  printer,  and  seems  to  have 
been  possessed  of  a  deeply  religious  nature,  as  we  learn  that,  while  not 
an  ordained  minister,  he  frequently  officiated  as  a  preacher  of  the 
gospel  in  Kirkcaldy.  His  mother,  Susanna  Macdonald,  was  descended 
from  an  ancient  Highland  family.  She  was  a  woman  of  strong 
intellectual  faculties,  and  our  author  is  said  to  have  inherited  many  of 
her  distinguished  qualities.  Mr.  Wood,  after  receiving  what  in  those 
days  was  considered  an  excellent  education,  began  the  battle  of  life  on 
his  own  account  by  becoming  an  apprentice  to  a  publishing  firm  in  his 
native  city.  Life,  however,  in  Edinburgh  seemed  too  slow  for  his 
ideas.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  emigrated  to  this  country,  and 
after  travelling  somewhat  extensively  through  the  South  settled  in  New 
Orleans.  Here  he  readily  obtained  employment,  and  shortly  after- 
ward began  contributing  a  series  of  articles  on  various  subjects  to  the 
Jidinburgh  Review  which  attracted  considerable  attention  and  brougiit 
his  name  i)romineiitly  before  the  literary  celebrities  of  the  lime  then 
domiciled  in  the  Scottish  metroi)olis.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  taken 
kindly  to  Southern  life,  however,  although  one  of  his  friends  writes 
that  "the  balmy,  delicious  climate  and  summer  pomp  of  the  South 
slill  lingers  pleasantly  in  his  memory."  In  a  few  years  he  came  North 
and  took  up  his  residence  in  Brooklyn.  Obtaining  a  minor  position 
on  the  Ti/ncs,  his  abilities  as  a  journalist  were  soon  recognized,  and 
he  was  rapidly  advanced  until  at  length  he  was  offered  and  accejjted 
the  post  of  managing  editor.     Mr.  Wood  composed  verses  from  his 


ii8  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

boyhood,  and  many  of  his  early  musings  evince  considerable  talent 
and  skill.     Take  as  a  specimen  of  this: 

ACHILLEA  MILLEFOLIUM. 


Not  by  the  sounding  name  that  science  wrote 
For  thee,  fair  Yarrow,  do  I  hold  thee  dear; 

Yet  that  is  precious,  even  as  mothers  gloat 
O'er  honors  that  their  darling  children  wear. 

Fair  child  of  summer!  with  thy  thousand  le.aves 
Bordering  with  living  green  the  dust  brown  street, 

While  through  the  emerald  fringe  thy  blossom  weaves, 
Thick  clustering  stars  for  beauty's  garland  meet. 

In  many  a  land — beneath  the  tropic's  blaze, 
On  Northern  hills  where  snow-fed  torrents  foam — 

Thy  flowers  have  answered  back  my  wearied  gaze 
And  thrilled  me  with  soft  memories  of  home. 

And  that  dear  stream,  in  whose  song-honored  name 
Thou,  Yarrow,  art  baptized  and  consecrate; 

Its  steep,  birch-shadowed  banks  remembrance  claim 
Where  rock-throned  Newark  sits  in  lonely  stale. 

Oh,  fairest  stream!  Not  broader  in  thy  course 

Than  Bushkill  Creek,  by  amorous  willows  kissed, 

And  given  to  gloom  and  darkness  at  the  source 
By  llowerless  crags  envcilcd  in  tearful  mist. 

Fond  memory  hears  th}-  hidden  music  rise 

Through  dense  wove  branches  from  the  deep  ravine. 

While  Newark's  silent  towers  before  me  rise 
(Not  like  its  Jerse}'  antitype,  I  ween). 

Even  there,  as  here,  my  wayside  blossoms  gleam, 
Flinging  their  odors  to  the  hill-born  gale. 

Drinking  their  glory  of  their  patron  stream, 
And  giving  beauty  to  the  birchen  dale. 

As  in  the  shell  the  land-bound  sailors  hear 

The  sullen  roaring  of  the  distant  sea. 
So  Yarrow's  glen,  St.  Mary's  lonely  mere. 

Are  i)ictiircd,  Yarrow,  in  thy  llowers  to  me. 

And  if  thy  flowers,  neglected  and  unsought, 

Are  crushed  beneath  the  ploughman's  heedless  tread 

True  lover  liands  shall  strew,  with  tciuler  thought. 
Thy  blossoms  o'er  the  summer's  dying  bed. 


WILLIAM  MACDONALD    WOOD.  119 

As  might  be  expected  from  one  whose  abilities  have  secured  for  him 
the  responsible  j^osition  of  editor  of  a  daily  newspaper,  Mr.  Wood's 
writings  prove  that  he  is  possessed  of  highly  cultured  literary 
tastes.  His  ])oems  display  marked  strength,  a  fanciful  imagination, 
({uiet  humor,  and  keen  descriptive  powers,  while,  in  addition  to  these, 
we  find  a  s])irit  of  true  Christian  piety  hovering  over  and  beautifying 
the  whole  of  his  work.  Although  the  largest  number  of  his  pieces  are 
written  in  the  English  language,  he  has  given  us  cpiite  a  few  which 
prove  that,  however  cosmopolitan  he  may  have  become  in  his 
ideas,  he  still  retains  a  warm  place  in  his  heart  for  his  "  auld 
mither  tongue."  The  following  lyrical  production  is  a  good  illustra- 
tion of  this: 

OLD  AND  NEW. 


0  dinna  sing  thae  jingling  sangs 

That  tempt  the  graceless  feet, 
Wi'  solemn  words  in  daft  array, 

Like  guisers  on  the  street; 
But  to  the  grand  auld  measures 

That  fill  the  kirks  at  hamc, 
Sing  the  sweet  sangs  that  David  sang 

To  strains  that  he  micht  claim. 

At  least  let  thae  licht  sangs  be  still 

On  the  holy  Sabbath  day, 
Nor  thrum  sic  evil  dancin'  rants 

When  to  your  God  ye  pray, 
111  do  sic  wanton  thrains 

Become  the  holy  name, 
O  sound  His  praise  in  the  grand  old  strains 

That  fill  the  kirks  at  hamc. 

O  grannie,  let  the  bairnies  sing 

As  fit  their  lichtsome  mood, 
Nor  let  the  gloom  O  Sinai  cloud 

Their  gowan-busket  road, 
Sweet  were  the  auld  kirk  aniliems, 

Where  lyart  elders  knelt; 
Yet  thinkna  heaven  disdain'd  to  hear 

The  laverock's  gladsome  lilt. 

Aft  have  our  torn  an'  tempted  hearts 

Tlirill'd  to  the   psalmist's  lyre, 
An'  kenned  the  sins  an'  griefs  our  ain 

That  did  his  strains  inspire; 


I20  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

But  the  sangs  that  pleased  the  Master, 

When  this  cauld  world  He  trod, 
Were  the  glad  hosannas  o'  the  weans 

That  hailed  Him  as  their  God. 

Bethink  ye  how  our  faith  was  wrocht 

In  persecution's  fires 
When  on  the  covenant  anvil  stern 

God  fashioned  out  our  sires 
The  hills  that  drank  their  life-bluid 

Echo  their  martyr  psalms, 
Each  misty  moor  their  children  till 

Their  ragged  faith  embalms. 

But  they  have  fa'en  on  summer  days, 

Thae  slips  o'  the  auld  tree; 
Tho'  covenant  bluid  is  in  their  veins 

Nae  covenant  fires  they  dree 
Theirs  are  lauchin'  blossoms, 

The  fragrant  sweet-blown  flowers 
O'  the  faith  bedewed  wi'  martyr  blood 

On  Scotland's  heathery  moors. 

Then,  grannie,  let  the  bairnies  sing 

As  suits  their  gleesome  mood; 
Nor  let  our  Sinai  cloud  the  path 

Their  God  wi'  flowers  has  strewed. 
When  David's  waes  beset  them 

Like  us,  his  psalms  they'll  sing; 
But  let  the  loud  hosannas  rise 

That  hail  the  children's  king. 

Among  our  author's  various  poems  we  also  find  a  number  of  what 
we  miglit  term  domestic  pieces.  These  are  written  in  simple  and 
choice  language,  easily  understood  and  long  remembered.  While  they 
contain  some  very  thoughtful  and  touching  i)assages,  they  also  possess 
the  rare  feature  of  never  soaring  into  impossibilities.  Such  a  one  is 
"Wedded  Love."  It  was  written  many  years  ago,  but  it  has  stood  the 
test  of  time,  and  remains  one  of  Mr.  Wood's  most  admired  pieces. 

WEDDED  LOVE. 


Tradition  says,  when  Stradivarius  wrought — 

The  idol  of  Cremona's  golden  days 

When  Art's  inspired  evangels  hymned  his  praise 
And  as  a  shrine  his  dingy  workshoj)  sought — 


WILLIAM  MACDONALD    WOOD.  121 


The  Master,  slowly  fashioning  piece  to  piece, 
Surveyed  with  doubt  and  self-distrustful  shame 
The  unaccorded  and  iintcmpcrcd  frame 

Till  Time's  acclaim  gave  to  his  doubts  surcease. 

But  still  he  wrought,  with  patient,  tender  skill. 
Singing  his  soul  into  each  instrument. 
And,  as  the  mellowing  seasons  came  and  went. 

These,  ripening,  grew  responsive  to  his  will. 

For,  wedded  part  to  part  in  union  strong, 

Veined  through  with  throbbing  tides  of  harmony 
The  parts  forgot  their  old  identity, 

Merged  in  one  glorious  avalanche  of  song. 

So,  wife  of  mine;  returning  seasons  prove 

That  year  by  year  our  hearts  the  closer  grow, 

The  old  self  fades  as  round  our  spirits  flow 
The  all  sufTusing  symphonies  of  love. 

Eight  years  ago,  O  dearer  life  of  mine! 

Alono  with  God  we  stood  and  joined  our  troth, 
Alone,  though  loving  kinsfolk  hailed  our  oath, 

No  presence  felt  we,  love,  save  mine  and  thine. 

We  loved,  as  youth  and  maiden  love,  when  all 
Of  heaven  is  cssenced  in  the  loved  one's  smile. 
Nor  conscious  doubt,  nor  dream  of  hidden  wile 

Bade  its  dark  shadow  o'er  our  nuptial  fall. 

Yet,  looking  back  across  those  happy  years, 
Scemeth  not,  loved  one,  fondly  as  we  stood 
On  that  March  day,  our  love  unripe  and  crude, 

Waiting  the  mellowing  touch  of  mingled  tears  ? 

Heart  grows  to  heart,  and  soul  to  soul,  alone 
When  touched  by  common  joys  and  common  woes. 
But  self  dies  hard,  and  struggles  as  he  goes 

Though  fading  into  bliss  before  unknown. 

Our  thoughts,  O  wife,  are  but  the  thought  of  one; 

Our  tears  have  flowed,  our  smiles  as  one  flashed  forth, 
The  years  but  prove  to  each  the  other's  worth, 

And  true  love  ripens  with  each  rising  sun. 

Probably  the  finest  of  all  Mr.  Wood's  productions,  however,  is  his 
poem  on  the  famous  Scottish  divine,  Thomas  Guthrie,  who  died  in 
1873.     The  subject  afforded  him  considerable  scope  for  the  exercise 


122  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

of  his  poetical  powers,  and  he  certainly  made  good  use  of  the  same. 
There  is  not  a  verse  in  the  poem  which  could  not  stand  as  a  true 
picture  of  Dr.  Guthrie  in  some  phase,  and  altogether  they  form,  in  our 
judgment,  one  of  the  finest  eulogies  ever  pronounced  on  this  noble  and 
God-serving  hero. 

THOMAS  GUTHRIE. 


Here  is  one  whom  ye  may  mourn, 

A  man,  whatever  title  others  claim, 

This  ever  shall  his  name  adorn — 

In  every  fibre  of  his  burly  frame; 

In  his  broad,  vehement  speech,  ablaze  with  thought 

In  every  noble  work  his  strong  hands  wrought, 

Staunch,  stubborn  manhood,  fit  expression  sought. 

What  was  he?  this  gray-haired  man, 

Lying  so  still,  though  wet  with  burning  tears, 

Washed  with  orphan  tears,  yet  wan — 

Scarred  with  the  hurricanes  of  storm-filled  years? 

An  iron  veteran,  battle-worn  and  grim. 

Yet  love  bends  over  him  with  soft  eyes  dim. 

And  hosts  of  homeless  children  weep  for  him. 

He  was  a  prophet  of  the  Lord, 

His  lips  aglow  with  coal  from  God's  own  altar, 

And  all  the  gold  of  fashion's  horde 

Was  vain  to  tempt  his  steps  to  swerve  or  falter 

From  the  steep  path  alone  by  duty  lighted. 

Bravely  he  went  to  seek  the  souls  benighted, 

Till  even  his  tempters  followed  him  delighted. 

A  man  of  wondrous  eloquence, 

Melting  proud  schoolmen  with  his  glowing  zeal, 

And  shaping  intellect  and  sense. 

As  on  his  forge  the  workman  shapes  the  steel; 

Yet,  scorning,  like  the  Galilean  Cliicf,  the  praise 

And  costly  offerings  of  the  host  he  sways 

And  caring  more  the  outcast  poor  to  raise. 

Even  as  his  wandering  Master  took 

Lepers  and  thieves  and  others  in  His  care, 

Unheeding  Piiariscc's  rebuke. 

So  Guthrie  tiod  dark  allc}'  and  vile  stair, 

And  vice  sliraiik  witiicred  from  his  words  of  fire, 

And  men,  uplifted,  shunned  the  drunkard's  mire, 

And  the  neglected  children  found  a  sire. 


WILLIAM  MACDONALD    WOOD.  123 


Honor  to  Tlionias  Gutliric's  name! 

His  hearty  voice  is  heard  no  more  on  earth, 

But  we  arc  richer  with  his  fame, 

And  lieaven  is  richer  with  liis  love  and  mirth. 

Write  on  his  tomb  that  Scotland  never  gave 

To  earth  a  man  more  noble,  kindly,  brave, 

Than  this  who  rests  from  toil  in  Guthrie's  grave. 

Among  the  other  not;il)lc  poems  of  this  talented  Scottish  poet  we 
might  mention  "My  Joy  is  Taken,"  "The  Gaelic  Race,"  "The 
Children's  Festival,"  and  his  much  admired  tribute  to  the  genius  of 
John  Howard  Payne,  the  author  of  thai  imperishable  lyric,  "  Home, 
Sweet,  Home."  One  of  his  most  cherished  aspirations  is  the  desire  to 
compose  a  set  of  words  to  the  air  of  Yankee  Doodle,  as  he  considers 
that  by  its  audacious  aggressive  unconventional  measure,  this  air  con- 
stitutes itself  the  true  American  national  anthem.  He  has  "tried  his 
hand,"  as  he  says,  on  this  once  or  twice,  with  more  or  less  success. 
The  following  will  give  an  idea  of  his  work  in  this  direction: 

Hail,  O  Fatherland,  to  thee! 

Hail,  thou  restless  giant! 
Marching  on  from  sea  to  sea, 

Strong  and  self-reliant. 
Laurelled  with  a  hundred  years 

Whence  no  shames  assail  thee. 
Proudly  still  with  songs  and  cheers 

We,  thy  children,  hail  thee. 

With  a  thousand  tongues  we  come 

In  one  anthem  blended; 
Faction's  feeble  voice  is  dumb. 

Ancient  feuds  are  ended. 
Gothic  force  and  Gaelic  fire 

Mingling  here  unhindered; 
One  and  all  wc  hail  thee,  sire, 

Clasping  hands  of  kindred. 

Hail  to  thee,  America! 

Lift  thy  banner  stainless; 
Land  of  freedom,  land  of  law, 

Kingless  land  and  chainless. 
Lo!  the  nations  far  that  bear 

Brand  of  fetters  feudal, 
Lift  their  hearts  in  hope  to  hear 

The  song  of  Yankee  Doodle. 


124  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Mr,  Wood  commands  the  respect  of  a  very  large  circle  of  literary 
and  other  friends.  In  his  pleasant  home  at  Manhasset,  L.  I.,  the  sur- 
roundings of  which  he  likens  to  "  a  region  transplanted  from  the 
Lothian  uplands,"  he  lives  at  peace  with  the  world,  and  serene  and 
happy  in  the  midst  of  his  family  and  his  books.  Mr,  Thomas  C.  Latto 
writes  that  "  under  a  very  gentle  exterior  there  is  a  true  manliness,  a 
tender  feeling,  a  warm  love  of  country,  native  and  adopted,  and  a 
genial  wit  and  humor  that  would  hardly  be  suspected  by  those  who  do 
not  know  him  thoroughly."  He  has  never  ventured  on  the  publica- 
tion of  a  volume,  but  it  would  afford  his  numerous  friends  a  sincere 
pleasure  were  they  to  see  the  announcement  made  that  he  was  about 
to  issue  a  collection  of  his  poems  in  book  form. 


ANDREW    WANLESS. 

Whose  song  gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start. 

Mr.  Wanless  is  a  deservedly  popular  Scottish  poet.  He  has  now 
been  before  the  public  as  an  author  for  upwards  of  forty  years,  and 
during  that  time  he  has  published  many  beautiful  and  valuable  poems 
that  will  live  and  be  admired  long  after  the  present  generation  has 
passed  away.  On  the  publication  of  his  second  volume  of  poems,  he 
presented  a  copy  to  Her  Majesty,  Queen  Victoria,  and  in  due  time 
received  the  following  acknowledgment  of  the  same.  "  Lieut.  Gen. 
Sir  T.  M.  Eiddulph  has  received  the  Queen's  commands  to  thank  Mr. 
A.  Wanless  for  sending  his  volume  of  Poems  and  Songs,  which  Her 
Majesty  has  been  graciously  pleased  to  accept.  Buckingham  Palace, 
Septemper  2,  1876."  Mr.  Wanless  is  now  getting  well  on  in  years. 
In  an  epistle  to  his  friend,  Mr.  James  McKay,  of  Detroit,  he  says  : 

"I'm  getting  uiico  auld  and  still, 
And  glow'ring  ower  life's  dreary  cliflT; 
'Twill  no  be  lang  or  I  play  whiff, 

And  close  my  e'en, 
And  sail  awa  in  death's  dark  skifT 

To  the  unseen. 

"Yet  still  I  needna  grunt  and  grane, 
I'm  no  just  in  the  warld  alane, 
I've  wife  and  bairns  to  ca'  my  ain. 

And  when  I  dee 
Nae  stranger  cauld  wi'  heart  o'  stane 

Will  close  my  e'e  !" 

In  a  short  autobiographical  sketch  of  our  author,  to  which  we  have 
had  access,  we  find  him  saying: — "I  was  born  in  Longformacus,  Ber- 
wickshire, May  25,  1824,     This  is  near  the  classic  Tweed  and  among 


126  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

the  Lammermoor  hills,  the  scene  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  *  Bride  of 
Lammermoor.'  The  same  locality  is  also  mentioned  in  the  *  Heart  of 
Midlothian,'  when  Jennie  Deans,  on  her  visit  to  London,  informed 
the  Duke  of  Argyle  tliat  she  had  an  aunt  residing  in  Longformacus, 
'  Wha  was  a  grand  maker  of  ewe-milk  cheese.'  My  father  studied  and 
graduated  from  the  famous  University  of  Edinburgh.  He  was  the 
parochial  teacher  of  the  parish  in  which  he  lived  for  more  than  fifty 
years.  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  his  intense  grief  when  the  tidings 
of  the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  first  reached  him.  He  was  an  ardent 
admirer  of  the  wonderful  ability  of  the  famous  '  Wizard  of  the  North.' 
The  mind  of  my  mother,  however,  was  strongly  tinctured  with  Cal- 
vanistic  doctrines,  and  she  regarded  the  matter  in  a  very  different 
light.  '  Houts,  guid  man,' said  she,  'he's  wcel  awa'.  He  was  just 
fillin'  the  heads  o'  the  folks  fu'  o'  downright  havers! '  "  Young  Wanless 
was  sent  to  school  at  an  early  age,  and  received  the  usual  education 
which  was  supposed,  at  that  time,  to  fit  a  lad  for  almost  any  business 
calling.  He  gives  us  a  pleasant  gliinpse  of  his  boyhood  days  when  he 
says,  "  My  keenest  pleasure,  in  early  life,  was  found  in  wandering 
about  my  native  land,  visiting  romantic  haunts  and  burnsides.  I  was 
always  of  a  studious  and  retiring  disposition,  enjoying  the  society  of 
nature  more  than  that  of  man.     As  1  said  in  rhyme  years  afterwards: 

'  When  floods  cam'  gushing  down  the  hill 
And  swelling  wide  the  wee  bit  rill, 
As  sure  as  death — I  mind  it  still — 

In  some  lone  nook, 
I'd  stand  and  learn  poetic  skill 

Frae  nature's  book. 

'A  snow-drop  on  its  bielded  bed 
Would  raise  its  modest  virgin  head, 
My  very  heart  to  it  was  wed 

With  nature's  chain; 
And  tears  o'  joy  would  o'er  it  shed, 

I  was  sac  fain! 

'  And  when  the  bonnic  spring  would  come. 
When  bees  around  the  flowers  would  bum. 
And  Unties  were  nae  Linger  dumb 

The  woods  amang, 
'Twas  there,  wi'  them,  I  learned  to  hum 

My  wee  bit  sang.'" 


ANDREW   IVAN  LESS.  127 

After  leaving  school  Mr.  Wanless  was  sent  to  Dunse  where  he 
entered  upon  a  seven  years'  apprenticeship  as  a  bookbinder.  On  com- 
pleting his  term  of  service  he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  pro- 
cured a  position  as  foreman  in  a  large  bookbinding  establishment. 
"In  Edinburgh,"  he  tells  us,  "I  frequently  met  and  conversed  with 
Professor  Wilson  (Christopher  North),  Hugh  Miller,  Robert  Chambers, 
Francis  Jeffrey,  Lord  Cockburn,  and  many  other  famous  literary  and 
scientific  men  of  their  day.  I  also  attended  the  School  of  Arts,  where  I 
acquired  a  knowledge  of  French  and  various  other  fancy  accomplish- 
ments which  have  never  been  of  practical  benefit.  My  mind  then,  and 
pretty  nuuh  ever  since,  found  room  only  for  contemi)lalion  of  the 
songs  of  the  old  Scotch  Bards." 

In  1 85 1  he  emigrated  to   Canada,  and  taking  up  his  residence  in 
Toronto  entered  into  business  on  his  own  account  as  a  bookbinder. 
This  turned  out  an  unfortunate  adventure  for  him,  as  his  shop  was 
burned  one  day  and  he  was  left  without  a  penny.     While  in  Toronto 
he  contributed  a  large  number  of  poems  to  the  press,  and  published  a 
volume  which  was  warmly  received  by  the  public,  and  is  now  entirely 
out  of  print.     In  1861   he  removed  to  Detroit,  where  he  once  more 
set  up  in  business,  this  time  as  a  bookseller.     Since  then  he  has  been 
successful    in  all    respects,  and  is  now  one  of  the  best  known  and 
most  respected  citizens  of  Detroit.     "My  career  in  this  city  is  too 
well  known  to  justify  elaboration,"  he  writes.     "I  have  lived  a  quiet, 
peaceful  life,  and  sincerely  trust  I  have  made  few  enemies.     I  have 
gradually  surrounded  myself  with  a  large  collection  of  old  book<;,  both 
standard  and  miscellaneous  in  character.     I  have  seen  many  changes 
in  the  city,  and    have  seen  those  whom   I  had  learned  to  love   droj) 
out  of  the  long  race  one  by  one.     In  1873  I  published  another  volume 
of   poems    which    met    with   such    favor  that   a  second  edition    was 
demanded  a  year  later.     I  have  travelled  extensively  in  this  country 
and  in  Canada,  reading  before  Scotch  audiences.     I  have  now  a  book 
in  manuscript  which  is  nearing  con)pletion,  which  I  have  called  '  The 
Droll  Book  of  Original  Scotch  Anecdotes.'     I  possess  a  remarkable 
memory  for  the  folk  lore  with  which   I  was  familiar  during  my  early 
years.     I  should   have  told  you  that  I  have  been  married  twice  and 
have  a  family  of  six  children,  all  bonnie  lasses."     From  his   comfort- 
able home  in  Detroit  he  has  sent  forth  the  majority  of  his  finest  poems. 
One  of  these,  "  Our  Mither  Tongue,"  was  read  before  the  St.  Andrew's 
Society,  Detroit,  November  30,  1870.     It  at  once  achieved  popularity 


128  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

both  in  America  and  Scotland,  and  to  day   is   probably  one   of  his 
widest-known  j^ieces. 

OUR  MITHER  TONGUE. 


It's  monie  a  day  since  first  we  left 

Auld  Scotland's  rugged  hills — 
Her  hcath'ry  braes  and  gow'ny  glens, 

Her  bonnie  winding  rills — 
We  lo'ed  her  in  the  bj'-gane  time, 

When  life  and  hope  were  young, 
We  lo'e  her  still,  wi'  right  guid  will. 

And  glorj'  In  her  tongue! 

Can  we  forget  the  summer  days 

Whan  we  got  leave  frae  schule. 
How  we  gade  birrin'  down  the  braes 

To  daidle  in  the  pool? 
Or  to  the  glen  we'd  slip  awa 

Where  hazel  clusters  hung, 
And  wake  the  echoes  o'  the  hills — 

Wi'  our  auld  mither  tongue. 

Can  we  forget  the  lonesome  kirk 

Where  gloomy  ivies  creep  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  auld  kirk  yard 

Where  our  forefather's  sleep  ? 
We'll  ne'er  forget  that  glorious  land. 

Where  Scott  and  Burns  sung — 
Their  sangs  arc  printed  on  our  hearts 

In  our  auld  mither  tongue. 

Auld  Scotland!  Land  o'  mickle  fame! 

The  land  where  Wallace  trod, 
The  land  whose  heartfelt  prnisc  ascends 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God; 
Land  where  the  martyrs  sleep  in  peace. 

Where  infant  freedom  sprung, 
Where  Knox  in  tones  of  thunder  spoke 

In  our  auld  mither  tongue. 

Now  Scotland  dinna  ye  be  blatc 

'Mang  nations  crouscl)'  craw. 
Your  callants  are  nae  donnert  sumphs. 

Your  lasses  bang  them  a' 
The  glisks  o'  heaven  will  never  fade, 

That  hope  around  us  flung — 
When  first  we  breath'd  the  tale  o'  love 

In  our  auld  mither  tongue. 


ANDREW    WANLESS.  129 

O  !  let  us  ne'er  forget  our  hame, 

Auld  Scotland's  hills  and  cairns, 
And  let  us  a'  where'er  we  be, 

Aye  strive  "  to  be  guid  bairns," 
And  when  we  meet  wi'  want  or  age 

A-hirpIing  owre  a  rung, 
We'll  lak'  their  part  and  cheer  their  heart 

Wi'  our  auld  mithcr  tongue. 

Mr.  Wanless's  poems  have  a  genuine  ring  that  is  not  to  be  mistaken. 
They  are  deep  in  thought,  exquisite  in  fancy,  tender  in  sentiment, 
rich  in  humor,  and  not  a  few  of  them  are  of  a  very  pathetic  nature, 
although  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  is  only  on  rare  occasions  that  he 
introduces  anything  of  a  gloomy  or  sorrowful  character.  Probably 
the  best  of  all  his  pieces,  in  this  connection,  is  the  one  entitled  "  My 
Bonnie  Bairn,"  which  we  herewith  append.  It  is  a  very  touching  piece 
of  poetry  and  will  always  be  ranked  as  one  of  his  finest  inspirations. 

MY  BONNIE  BAIRN. 


In  my  auld  hame  we  had  a  flower 
A  bonnie  bairnie  sweet  and  fair, 
There's  no  a  flower  in  yonder  bower 
That  wi'  my  bairnie  could  compare. 

There  was  nae  gloom  about  our  house 
His  merrj'  laugh  was  fu'  o'  glee; 
The  welfare  o'  my  bonnie  bairn 
Was  mair  than  worlds  wealth  to  me. 

And  aye  he'd  sing  his  wee  bit  sang, 
And  o'  he'd  make  my  heart  sae  fain, 
When  he  would  climb  upon  my  knee 
And  tell  me  that  he  was  my  ain. 

The  bloom  has  faded  frae  his  cheek 
The  light  has  vanished  frae  his  e'e. 
There  is  a  want  baith  but  and  ben 
Our  house  nae  mair  is  fu'  o'  glee. 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  tender  smile 
That  flitted  o'er  his  wee  bit  face. 
When  death  came  on  his  silent  wing. 
And  clasp'd  him  in  his  cold  embrace. 


I30  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

We  laid  him  in  the  lonesome  grave. 
We  laid  him  doon  wi'  mickle  care; 
'Twas  like  to  break  my  heart  in  twain, 
To  leave  my  bonnie  darling  there. 

The  silent  tears  unbidden  came. 
The  waefu'  tears  o'  bitter  woe. 
Ah!  little,  little,  did  I  think. 
That  death  would  lay  my  darling  low. 

At  midnight's  lone  and  mirky  hour, 
When  wild  the  angry  tempests  rave 
My  thoughts — they  winna  bide  away — 
Frae  my  ain  bairnie's  wee  bit  grave. 

The  lyrical  productions  of  our  author  are  all  refined  and  musical. 
"  The  very  language,  as  he  uses  it,"  said  the  Nezv  York  Scotsman, 
*'  makes  him  tender,  brave,  superstitious,  patriotic  and  charitable.  It 
has  a  charm  to  him,  and  he  casts  its  spell  over  his  readers.  In  many 
points  he  resembles  Burns,  in  the  pathos  of  his  love  songs,  in  his  sub- 
mission to  and  communion  with  the  mysterious  influences  of  nature, 
and  in  his  tender  regard  for  the  humbler  forms  of  life."  Among  his 
finest  productions  are  "  Home  Recollections,"  "A  Sabbath  Morning 
in  Scotland,"  "  Sandy  Gill,"  "  Lammermoor,"  **  Turning  the  Key,'' 
"  The  Creelin',"  "  War  and  Peace,"  "  Caledonian  Games  on  Belle 
Isle,"  inscribed  to  J.  B.  Wilson,  Esq.,  "  Tam  and  Tib,"  "  Nan  o' 
Lockermacus,"  "  The  Second  Sight,"  "  Jean  and  Donald,"  "  Craigie 
Castle,"  "  The  Lang  Tailor  o'  Whitby,"  his  epistle  "  To  A.  H.  Wing- 
field,  Esq."  (the  author  of  the  beautiful  ballad,  "  There's  Crape  on  the 
Door")  and  "  The  Scott  Centenary,"  a  poem  which  has  many  admirers, 
and  which  has  been  extensively  re-printed  by  the  British  and  Canadian 
press.  At  the  time  when  it  was  first  published  the  Edinburgh  Scots- 
man remarked  that  a  single  line  in  it,  viz.,  "And  Scotland  lives  in 
Bannockburn,"  contained  a  whole  volume. 

THE  SCOTT  CENTENARY. 


A  hundred  years  have  rolled  away, 
This  morn  brought  in  the  natal  day, 
Of  one  whose  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

Beside  flic  clear  and  winding'Forth 
Was  born  the  "  Wizard  of  the  North," 
The  muses  circled  round'his  bed 
And  placed  their  mark  upon  his  head; 


ANDREW   WAN  LESS.  131 


And  Nature  sang  a  grand  refrain 
As  Genius  claimed  his  wondrous  brain, 
For  every  bird  in  bush  or  braite, 
Beside  the  silv'ry  stream  or  lake, 
Sang  blylhly  on  their  leafy  throne, 
In  honor  of  the  "great  Unknown!" 

The  thistle  raised  its  drooping  head, 
The  lark  forsook  his  heather  bed, 
Shook  from  his  wing  the  dcwdrop  moist, 
And  on  the  golden  cloud  rejoic'd; 
The  classic  Tweed  took  up  the  lay, 
The  Yarrow  sang  by  bank  and  brae. 
And  Ettrick  danc'd  upon  her  way. 
The  daisies  by  the  crystal  wells 
Smiled  sweetly  to  the  heather  bells; 
And  rugged  craig  and  mountain  dun 
Exulted  he  was  Scotia's  son! 

Time  sped,  and  from  that  brilliant  brain 
There  issued  many  a  martial  strain; 
He  sang  of  knight  and  baron  bold, 
Of  king  and  clown  in  days  of  old, 
Though  dead  and  gone,  and  passed  away- 
Forgotten  in  the  mould'ring  clay — 
We  read,  we  trow,  his  magic  brain 
Brings  back  the  dead  to  life  again! 
He  sang  of  men  who  ne'er  would  yield 
In  border  fray  or  battle  field. 
Yes!  on  the  page  of  endless  fame 
He  wrote  of  many  a  deed  and  name; 
How  patriot  heroes  dared  to  die 
For  God,  for  right  and  liberty! 

Wc  see  the  beacon  on  the  hill, 
The  slumb'ring  earth  no  more  is  still, 
For  borne  upon  the  midnight  gale 
The  slogan's  heard  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  din  of  battle  and  the  cry 
That  echoed  through  the  vaulted  sky. 
As  warriors  fell  and  rose  and  reel'd. 
And  died  on  Flodden's  fatal  field! 

The  minstrel  loved  auld  Scotland's  hills, 
Her  gow'ny  braes  and  wimpling  rills, 
He  loved  the  land  that  gave  him  birth — 
A  land  beloved  o'er  all  the  earth; 


132  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

There  stood  the  brave  in  weal  or  woe, 
Who  never  crouched  to  foreign  foe — 
Who  stood  in  battle  like  a  rock, 
And  snapped  in  twain  the  t)Tant's  yoke! 

O  !  Scotland,  thou  art  dear  to  me! 
Thou  land  of  song  and  chivalry! 
There  Scott  and  Burns  and  man}-  more. 
Did  pencil  nature  to  the  core — 
There  Wallace  held  the  foe  in  scorn, 
And  Scotland  lives  in  Bannockburn! 
And  every  patriot,  far  or  near, 
In  foreign  land,  or  Scotia  dear, 
In  castle  proud,  or  lowly  cot, 
Reveres  the  name  of  Walter  Scott. 

Mr.  Wanless,  from  his  very  earliest  years,  has  been  strongly  imbued 
with  a  love  for  the  ancient  traditions  and  folk-lore  of  his  native  land, 
and  he  has  skilfully  woven  a  few  of  the  former  into  very  tender 
ballads.  Nearly  all  of  his  pieces  are  written  in  the  Scottish  dialect. 
He  possesses  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Doric,  and  he  uses  it  in 
all  its  purity  and  simplicity.  Among  the  few  pieces  which  he  has 
composed  in  connection  with  American  subjects,  his  poem  on  the  late 
Gen.  Ulysses  S.  Grant,  was  both  timely  and  appropriate. 

When  reason  was  banished,  and  treason  arose, 

And  brother  'gainst  brother  dealt  death-dealing  blows, 

And  the  words  came  as  one  from  the  lips  of  the  brave — 

"  The  flag  of  our  fathers  forever  must  wave; " 

And  a  hero  arose  in  the  midst  of  our  woe, 

"  Forward!  "  he  cried  "  we  must  vaquish  the  foe;" 

But  there's  gloom  on  the  earth,  and  there's  gloom  in  the  skies. 

And  the  light  burns  dim  in  the  room  where  he  lies. 

The  foe  is  advancing — every  effort  they  strain, 

But  back  they  are  hurled  again  and  again, 

And  the  shout  of  the  Victor  is  heard  in  the  air: 

"  While  Liberty  lives  we  shall  never  despair  ;" 

And  the  hero  looks  round  on  the  death-striken  field, 

"  We  must  conquer  or  die,  but  we  never  will  yield," 

But  there's  gloom  on  the  earth,  and  there's  gloom  in  the  skies, 

And  the  light  burns  dim  in  the  room  where  he  lies. 


ANDREW    WANLESS.  133 


The  sword's  in  the  scabbard,  the  warfare  is  o'er, 

May  the  din  of  the  battle  be  heard  never  more; 

And  now  through  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  land, 

May  brother  meet  brother  with  heart  and  witl>  hand; 

May  the  past  be  forgot  and  may  bitterness  cease, 

And  the  watchword  be  ever:  "Come  let  us  have  peace!" 

But  there's  gloom  on  the  earth,  and  there's  gloom  in  the  skies. 

And  the  light  has  gone  out  in  the  room  where  he  lies. 

No  sketch  of  Mr.  Wanless  and  his  writings  would  be  complete  with- 
out referring  specially  to  his  patriotic  feelings  and  unconquerable  love 
for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth.  His  muse  has  been  used  for  no 
mercenary  purposes,  but  simply,  as  he  informs  us  in  the  preface  to  one 
of  his  published  volumes,  "  To  recall  the  scenes  of  our  early  years,  to 
bring  up  in  imagination  the  braw  lads  and  bonnie  lasses  that  we  for- 
gathered with  in  the  days  of  the  lang  syne,  and  attempt  to  describe,  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  wimpling  burns,  the  gowany  braes,  the 
bonnie  glens,  the  broomy  dells,  and  the  heather-clad  mountains  of  our 
native  land:  the  land  where  Wallace  and  Bruce  wielded  the  patriotic 
sword,  and  where  Ramsay,  Burns,  Scott,  Tannahill  and  many  more 
sang  the  songs  of  love  and  liberty."  Nor  do  the  feelings  of  the  gifted 
Bard  become  in  any  way  changed  while  age  begins  to  twine  the  white 
locks  around  his  venerable  forehead.  Only  a  few  weeks  ago  he  com- 
posed the  following  : 

WHA  DARE  MIDDLE  ME? 


Scotland!  how  glorious  is  the  theme. 

That  in  the  days  by  gone, 
Your  patriot  sons  undaunted  stood 

And  battled  for  their  own. 
Time  after  time  the  foe  advanced 

Your  rights  to  trample  down, 
To  blot  your  name  forever  out. 

And  grasp  your  royal  crown. 

Your  sons  could  never  bow  the  knee, 

Nor  brook  the' tyrant's  chains, 
Nature  had  written  on  your  hills — 

"  Here  freedom  ever  reigns." 
Sons  of  the  brave!  your  hearts  were  one. 

That  Scotland  must  be  free, 
Now  far  and  near  the  cry  is  heard — 

"  Wha  dares  to  middle  me?" 


134  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Forward!  see  Scotland's  gallant  sons 

Dash  on  to  meet  the  foe, 
Their  strong  right  hand  grasps  freedom's  sword 

And  freedom  guides  the  blow. 
Their  bows  are  bent,  their  swords  are  keen, 

And  with  their  matchless  might, 
Strongly  they  stand  to  crush  the  wrong, 

And  battle  for  the  right. 

The  battle  rages  fierce  and  fell, 

Till  o'er  the  deadly  fray. 
The  welkin  rings — "  the  victory's  won!  " 

Scotland  has  won  the  day. 
While  heather  blooms  on  Scotland's  hills, 

And  while  her  thistles  wave. 
Freedom  will  flourish  on  her  soil. 

And  guard  the  warrior's  grave! 

Every  verse  of  this  song  burns  with  intense  patriotism  for  the  land 
of  his  birth,  and  it  is  entitled  to  stand  side  by  side  with  Henry  Scott 
Riddell's  immortal  song  "  Scotland  Yet."  The  Scottish  language  is 
peculiarly  adapted  to  touch  and  enoble  the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature. 
In  view  of  this,  and  in  conclusion,  we  quote  from  our  author's  writings 
the  two  following  kindly  and  homely  lyrics,  the  last  of  which,  it  may 
be  stated,  appeared  in  a  late  issue  of  the  Detroit  Free  Press: 

ROBIN. 


I  hae  a  bird,  a  bonnie  bird. 

And  Robin  is  its  name, 
'Twas  sent  to  me,  wi'  kindly  words, 

Frae  my  auld  Scottish  hame. 
And  when  it  cam'  unto  my  hand 

It  looked  sae  dull  and  wae, 
Nae  doot  it  miss'd  the  flow'ry  glen. 

The  burnie  and  the  brae. 

There's  mair  than  you, my  bonnie  bird, 

Hae  cross'd  the  raging  main, 
Wha  mourn  the  blythc,  the  happy  days, 

They'll  never  see  again. 
Sweet  bird!  come  sing  a  sang  to  me, 

Unmindfu'  o'  our  ills; 
And  let  us  think  we're  ance  again 

'Mang  our  ain  heather  hills. 


ANDREW    WANLESS.  135 


The  joyfu'  hours  o'  nameless  bliss, 

O,  come  ye  back  to  me; 
My  love,  my  lost,  again  we  meet 

Aneath  the  trysting-trec. 
O,  sing  to  me,  my  bonnie  bird. 

And  ilka  note  o'  thine 
Will  conjure  up  the  gladsome  days- 

Tlie  joys  o'  auld  lang  sync. 


COME  HAME. 


My  love,  my  beautiful,  my  own, 

I'm  sitting  a'  alane; 
O,  how  I  long  to  hear  your  step 

And  welcome  you  again. 
There's  neathing  now  looks  bright  to  me. 

The  sunshine's  left  my.ha', 
There's  nae  ane  now  to  cheer  my  heart 

Since  ye  hae  gane  awa'. 

The  sun's'ganc  doon  ayont  the  hill, 

And  night  steals  slowly  nigh — 
'Tis  gloomy'night,  the  weary  winds 

Around  me  moan  and  sigh. 
My  love!  at  midnight's  silent  hour 

I  saw  thee  come  to  me, 
I  saw  thee  in  thy  youthful  bloom 

Come  tripping  o'er  the  lea. 

I  woke  to  find  it  but  a  dream, 

A  vision  of  the  night — 
Come  hamc,  come  hamc,  my  darling,  come, 

Come  hamc  my  heart's  delight. 
O,  come  again,  my  life,  my  love. 

And  fill  my  heart  with  glee. 
The  whisp'ring  winds  no  more  will  sigh 

When  ye  come  back  to  me. 


ALEXANDER    H.    WINGFIELD. 

Over  the  harp,  from  earliest  years  belov'd, 
He  threw  his  fingers  hurriedl)^  and  tones 
Of  melancholy  beaut)'  died  away, 
Upon  its  strings  of  sweetness. 

"  In  these  days,"  writes  Mr.  Wingfield,  "  the  notion  prevails  that 
poetry,  like  miracles,  has  ceased,  and  it  requires  a  certain  amount  of 
courage  for  an  individual  unknown  to  fame  to  come  forward  and  say, 
varying  the  memorable  expression  of  a  great  painter,  that  he  too  is  a 
poet.  This  is  the  age  not  only  of  mechanical  invention,  supposed  to 
be  the  very  antithesis  of  poetry,  but — more  dreadful  still — of  criticism; 
the  terrors  of  which  makes  timorous  poets  pause.  Homer  and  Milton 
stood  in  no  dread  of  reviewers;  though,  to  do  justice  to  our  own  time, 
it  must  be  added  that  they  were  at  certain  disadvantages  for  want  of 
publishers.  We  are  most  of  us  conscious  of  a  belief  that  poetry  was 
to  be  looked  for  as  a  matter  of  course  in  days  gone  by,  when  shepherds 
piped  by  the  banks  of  classic  streams,  and  when  scholars  assembled  in 
acndemic  groves;  or  when  in  more  recent  times  our  own  poets  found 
inspiration  by  lake  and  mountain,  around  some 

'  Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain,* 

or  in  meditative  ([uiet  and  solemn  stillness  of  the  country  churchyard. 
But  can  poetry  be  born  amid  the  noisy  rattle  of  the  loom,  the  birr  of 
wheels,  the  clang  of  hammers,  the  screaming  whistle  and  thundering 
rush  of  the  locomotive.'"  In  answer  to  this  we  unhesitatingly  reply 
yes,  and  in  confirmation  of  our  opinion  we  have  only  to  point  to  the 
volume  which  Mr.  AVingficld  published  a  few  years  ago,  a  volume  that 
is  re])lcle  with  poems  and  lyrical  pieces  of  a  very  high  order  of  merit, 
and  all  of  which  were  composed  amidst  the  din  and  clatter  of  the 
Great  Western  Railway  boiler  shop  at  Hamilton,  Ontario.  There  are, 
indeed,  many  excellent  specimens  both  of  Scottish  and  English  verse 
in  this  volume,  and  each  piece  seems  to  have  been  composed  with  a 
special  pui])Ose  in  view  which  necessitated  their  being  carefully  thought 
out  before  being  committed  to  the  world.     Mr,  Wingfield,  however, 


ALEXANDER    WINGFIELD.  137 

is  very  modest  in  regard  to  tlie  merit  of  his  different  poems.  "  If 
there  be  poetry  in  them,"  he  says,  "it  is  such  as  comes  from  homely, 
natural  inspiration,  unaided  either  by  varied  reading  or  literary  leisure. 
As  I  have  really  felt,  or  believed,  or  imagined,  so  have  I  written;  and 
whatever  faults  of  expression  there  may  be  in  my  efforts,  there  is  no 
failure  in  honesty  of  intention.  Having  neither  read  much  nor 
travelled  far,  nor  been  able  to  put  the  world  of  nature  and  of  history 
under  contribution,  I  have  found  my  subjects  chiefly  among  the 
familiar  scenes  and  every-day  experiences  of  my  own  humble  walk  in 
life;  taking  such  color  and  impression  of  them  as  residence  in  a  busy 
city  like  Hamilton  could  not  fail  to  present."  His  muse  has  thus 
dwelt  on  various  subjects  and  to  show  the  kindly  nature  of  the  man 
and  his  feelings  toward  even  the  smallest  of  God's  creatures,  we  pie- 
sent  our  readers  with  his  well-known  address  of  welcome  to  the 
sparrows: 

Ye'rc  welcome,  wee  sparrows,  yc're  welcome  to  me; 
Vou  mak  me  as  happy  as  e'er  I  can  be  ; 
When  I  hear  you  chirp,  chirpin',  an'  see  ye  sae  tame. 
You  just  aye  look  to  me  like  kenn'd  faces  frae  hamc. 

There  are  some  canna  bear  ye,  an'  say  that  ye  steal, 
An'  fecht  wi'  your  neebors  at  times  like  the  deil; 
An'  they  hope  ye  may  meet  wi'  a'  sorts  o'  ill  luck, 
But  I  like  ye— ye're  emblems  of  true  British  pluck. 

D'ye  ever  turn  hame-sick  at  nicht  wlien  at  rest 
(The  lot  of  an  exile  is  ne'er  very  blest); 
D'ye  think  o'  the  times  ye've  had  fleein'  aroun' 
Wi'  the  cronies  you  left,  baith  in  kintra  an'  toon  ? 

D'ye  e'er  min'  the  hedge-rows,  whaur  often  at  e'en. 

Ye  hae  woo'd  yuur  blithe  mates  near  whaur  Burns  woo'd  his  Jean; 

An'  ye  heard  the  sweet  sang  o'  the  lark  in  tiie  morn, 

As  he  rose  up  dew-winged  frae  his  nest  'mang  the  corn? 

D'ye  min'  the  green  hawthorns  an'  red  shinin'  ha's, 
That  you  feasted  on  aft  by  the  auld  castle  wa's  ? 
I  doubtna,  wee  birdies,  ye  whiles  mourn  like  me, 
For  the  hame  ye  hae  left  far  awa  owre  the  sea. 

Ye  gar  me  think  o'  days  when  a  bairn  at  the  schulc, 
I  hae  hunted  an'  chased  you  wi'  hearty  guid-will; 
When  ye  tlecd  frae  my  steps  away  up  on  the  trees, 
I  hae  staned  you  wi'  vigor — I  winna  tell  lees. 


I3S  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


I  hae  harriet  your  nests  wi*  the  rest  o'  my  chums, 

An'  hae  often  enticed  ye  wi'  wee  bits  of  crums 

To  come  down  frae  your  3-oung  ones,  baith  early  an'  late, 

An'  then  trapp'd  ye  wi'  glee  wi'  three  bricks  and  a  slate. 

But  those  times  are  changed  noo — altho',  to  my  min', 
I  have  never  seen  happier  anes  e'er  sin  syne; 
For  the  wrangs  I  hae  dune  ye  in  life's  early  day. 
Fain,  fain  wud  I  noo  wi'  some  kindness  repay. 

I  am  wae  when  I  think  o'  the  lang  winter  days 
Ye'll  be  happin  aroun'  on  your  wee,  frozen  taes; 
Guid  kens  whaur  ye'll  get  your  bit  pickin's  ava. 
When  the  earth  is  laid  under  its  mantle  o'  sna'. 

I'm  no  blest  wi'  owre  much  ;  I've  but  little  to  spare  ; 
Yet,  there's  naethin'  I  hae  but  wi'  you  I  wud  share  ; 
If  ye  e'er  fin'  your  way  %vhaur  my  wee  hoosie  stan's. 
You  are  aye  sure  o'  something  at  least  frae  my  ban's. 

Thro'  the  cauld  winter  days  may  ye  meet  wi'  nae  harm  ; 
May  ye  aye  fin'  a  beild  to  jouk  in  frae  ilk  storm  ; 
May  the  raven's  Provider  tak  care  of  ye  a'. 
Till  the  blithe  simmer  comes  an'  the  •winter's  awa. 

Mr.  Wingfield  expresses  his  sentiments  in  clear  and  chaste  language, 
and  while  through  many  of  his  poems  there  runs  a  rich  vein  of  innocent 
humor,  or  of  manly  independence  which  makes  them  enjoyable  at  all 
times,  still,  it  is  in  his  serious  pieces  we  think  that  his  poetical  powers 
are  disj^layed  to  the  greatest  advantage.  All  of  these  musings  are 
simple  and  full  of  words  of  sympathy.  They  are  written  from  the 
heart,  and  they  appeal  directly  to  the  heart,  and  in  no  instance  do  we 
discover  in  their  composition  a  mere  straining  after  effect.  Take  his 
"Crape  on  the  Door,"  for  instance.  It  has  truly  been  said  that  who- 
ever could  compose  lines  like  the  follov/ing  was  capable  of  greater 
efforts,  and  we  yet  look  for  something  from  Mr.  Wingfield  that  will 
place  his  name  among  the  poets  who  have  achieved  a  world-wide 
fame: 

CRAPE  ON  THE  DOOR. 


There's  a  liitlc  white  cottage  that  Stan's  'mong  the  trees, 
Whaur  llic  huniming  bird  comes  to  sip  sweets  wi'  the  bees, 
Wliaur  the  bright  morning-glories  grow  up  o'er  the  caves. 
And  Ihe.wce  birdies  nestle  among  the  green  leaves. 
But  there's  something  around  it  to-day  that  seems  sad — 
It  has'na  that  look  o'  contentment  it  had; 
There  is  gloom  whaur  there  used  to  be  sunshine  before; 
Its  windows  are  darkened — there's  crape  on  the  door. 


ALEXANDER    WING  FIELD.  139 


There  is  crape  011  the  door — all  is  silent  within; 

There  are  nae  merry  children  there  making  a  din; 

For  the  anc  that  was  merriest  aye  e'  them  a' 

Is  laid  out  in  robes  that  look  white  as  the  sna'. 

Hut  yestcrdiiy  morn,  when  the  sun  shone  so  bright; 

Nae  step  bounded  frec'er — nae  heart  was  mair  light; 

When  the  gloamin'  cam'  round,  a' his  playing  was  o'er, 

He  was  drowned  in  the  Inirn — sae  there's  crape  on  the  door. 

Nae  mair  will  he  skip  like  a  lamb  o'er  the  lea, 

Or  pu'  the  wild  flowers,  or  gang  chasin'  the  bee; 

He'll  be  miss'd  by  the  bairns  when  they  come  hame  frae  schule. 

For  he  met  them  ilk  day  coming  down  o'er  the  hill. 

Beside  his  wee  coffin  his  lone  mother  kneels, 

And  she  breathes  forth  a  prayer  for  the  sorrow  she  feels; 

Her  puir  widowed  heart  has  been  scared  to  the  core, 

For  not  lang^sinsyne  there  was  crape  on  the  door. 

Her  sobs  choke  her  utt'rance,  though  she  strives,  but  in  vain 

To  stifle  her  grief,  or  her  tears  to  restrain; 

Yet  she  lovingly  murmurs,  "  I  winna  repine  ; 

Thy  will  be  done  Father  ;  Thy  will  and  not  mine; 

Though  my  trials  are  great,  yet  I  winna  complain; 

For  I  ken  that  the  Lord  has  but  ta'en  back  His  ain, 

To  dwell  wi'  the  angels  above  evermore 

Whaur  there's  nae  sin  nor  sorrow,  nor  crape  on  the  door." 

Among  our  author's  other  serious  pieces,  "The  Last  Farewell," 
«' The  Widow's  Wail,"  "Wee  Tot,"  "Our  Wee  Jeannie  "  and  "Not 
Lost,  but  Gone  Before,"  are  all  ])oenis  of  a  beautiful  and  touching 
nature,  and  prove  that  he  is  possessed  of  a  tender  and  Christian  heart. 
The  last  named  piece  was  composed  on  the  death  of  a  favorite  child, 
and  as  it  has  been  considerably  spoken  of  we  reprint  it  here: 

NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE. 


We've  nae  wee  Lily  noo,  Maggie, 

We've  nae  wee  Lily  noo; 
Death's  laid  his  cauld,  damp,  icy,  han' 

Upon  her  bonnie  broo, 
That  broo  whaur  gowden  curls  played, 

Aboon  her  een  o'  blue. 

'Twas  destined  sae  to  be,  Maggie, 

'Twas  destined  sae  to  be; 
That  God  should  tak'  awa  the  gift 


I40  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

He  gied  to  you  and  me  ; 
'Twas  hard  to  part  wi't  ;  sorrow's  a)'e 
A  bitter  thing  to  dree. 

She  looked  some  like  yoursel,  Maggie, 

She  looked  some  like  yoursel  ; 
How  much  I  lo'ed  her,  nana  but  He 

Wha  kens  our  hearts  can  tell. 
We  will  not  murmur  at  His  will. 

He  doeth  all  things  well. 

We'll  miss  her  unco  sair,  Maggie, 

We'll  miss  her  unco  sair  ; 
But  she  has  gane  whaur  grief  and  pain 

Will  never  reach  her  mair  ; 
Whaur  flowerets  bloom  and  shed  perfume 

In  Heaven's  garden  fair. 

We  will  not  mourn  her  noo,  Maggie, 

We  will  not  mourn  her  noo; 
She  isna  lost,  but  gane  before — 

Just  hidden  frae  our  view  ; 
She's  better  afT  than  she  could  be, 
Were  she  still  here  wi'  you. 

We'll  meet  wi'  her  again,  Maggie, 

We'll  meet  wi'  her  again, 
When  we  hae  passed  thro'  death's  dark  vale. 

And  crossed  o'er  Jordon's  plain  ; 
'Mang  ither  lammies  in  Christ's  fauld 

We'll  see  our  ain  wee  wean. 

Passing  from  Mr.  Wingfield's  serious  pieces,  we  come  upon  many 
displaying  a  humorous  sentiment,  to  which  is  not  unfrequently  com- 
bined a  little  well-directed  satire.  There  is  not  a  word  or  a  line  in 
any  of  these  pieces,  however,  that  could  offend  the  taste  or  hurt  the 
feelings  of  any  one.  This  in  itself  is  deserving  of  note.  "That  he 
has  penned  nothing,"  says  the  Hamilton  Evening  Tifnes,  "that  can 
lower  or  vulgarize  life  in  any  of  its  relations,  nor  even  pandered  to 
irreligion  or  sensuality,  is  something  to  feel  honestly  proud  of,  for,  in 
these  days  of  sensationism,  even  poets  of  mark  not  unfrequently 
sacrifice  morality  and  purity  in  their  craving  for  a  certain  kind  of 
popular  sympathy."     A  good  specimen  of  his  humorous  writings  is: 


ALEXANDER    WING  FIELD.  141 


A  SIIILLIN'  OR  TWA. 


Friendship  has  charms  for  tiie  leal  an'  the  true, 
There's  naething  can  beat  it  the  hale  warl  thro', 
But  ye'll  gey  aften  fin'  that  the  best  friend  ava 
Is  that  white-headed  callan  a  shillin'  or  twa'. 
Eh,  man,  it's  a  fine  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 
Ilech,  man,  it's  a  gran'  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa'. 
It  keeps  up  your  spirits,  it  adds  to  your  merits, 
If  ye  but  inherit  a  shillin'  or  twa. 

It's  surprisin'  how  much  you'll  be  thocht  o'  by  men, 
You'll  get  credit  for  wisdom  altho'  ye  hae  nane, 
Tho'  yc'r  but  a  dunce  ye'll  be  honored  by  a'. 
When  they  ken  that  ye  hue  a  bit  shillin'  or  twa. 
Eh,  man,  it's  a  line  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 
Hech,  man,  it's  a  gran'  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 
Ye'll  ne'er  ken  what  it  means  to  want  plenty  of  frien's 
Gin  ye  glamour  their  e'en  wi'  a  shillin'  or  twa. 

But  it  alters  the  case  when  your  pouches  are  toon. 
An'  your  credit's  a'  gane  an'  nae  wab  in  the  loom, 
Be  sure  then  ye'll  get  the  cauld  shoulder  frae  a', 
If  ye  ask  for  the  lend  o'  a  shillin'  or  twa. 
Eh,  man,  it's  a  fine  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 
Hech,  man,  it's  a  gran'  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa. 
But  there's  no  mony  then  that  will  haud  out  their  han' 
An'  say,  "here,  my  man,  there's  a  shillin'  or  twa." 

There  are  some  that  for  siller  wud  swap  their  auld  shoon, 
There  are  some  that  wud  cheat  for't  it  and  ne'er  ca't  a  sin, 
An'  there  are  some  sae  devoid  o'  morality's  law. 
Wud  shake  han's  wi'  the  deil  for  a  shillin'  or  twa. 
Eh,  man,  it's  a  fine  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 
Hech,  man,  it's  a  gran'  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 
To  become  rich  an'  great,  an'  hae  Uunkeys  to  wait, 
When  ye  drive  out  in  state  affyour  shillin'  or  twa. 

But  we  scorn  the  fause  loon  that  for  vain  worldly  pelf 

Wud  wrang  ither  folks  to  get  riches  himself, 

Aye  live  an'  let  live,  an'  do  justice  by  a', 

An'  may  you  ne'er  want  for  a  shillin'  or  twa. 

Eh,  man,  it's  a  fine  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 

Hech,  man,  it's  a  gran'  thing,  a  shillin'  or  twa, 

I've  aften  been  scant  o't,  and  weel  kcn't  the  want  o't. 

But  now,  Gudc  be  ihank't  for't,  I've  a  shiilin'  or  twa. 


142  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


From  a  poet  like  Mr.  Wingfield  we  naturally  look  for  many  pieces 
chronicling  the  deeds  or  extolling  the  virtues  of  his  native  land,  and 
our  expectations  in  this  respect  are  largely  realized.  He  is  continually 
singing  of  her  hills  and  glens,  woods  and  streams,  people,  history  and 
religion.     While  he  says: 

Oh,  Canada!  I  lo'e  thee  weal! 

Altho'  nae  son  o'  thine 
Within  thy  wide  domain  there  beats 

Nae  truer  heart  than  mine. 

Yet  the  home  of  his  infancy  is  ever  in  his  thoughts,  and  it  seems 
impossible  for  him  to  resist  the  temptation  to  write  about  her.  Here 
is  one  of  his  numerous  pieces  on  this  subject: 

THE  CALEDONIAN. 


There's  a  land  where  the  heather  and  thistle  wave, 

Where  the  foot  of  a  slave  ne'er  trod, 
Where  the  blue  bells  bloom  o'er  her  martyrs'  grave 

And  hallowed  is  that  sod. 
There's  a  land  whose  sons  are  staunch  and  brave, 

Whose  hills  are  lofty  and  grand, 
Whose  shores  are  kissed  by  the  blue  sea  wave, 

And  Scotia  is  that  land. 

'Tis  an  honored  place  that  same  proud  land, 
Tlie  home  of  the  Caledonian. 

There's  a  land  whose  bards  have  struck  their  lyres 

To  none  but  the  loftiest    strains, 
Whose  inspiring  tones  would  call  forth  lire 

From  the  dullest  coward's  veins. 
There's  a  land  where  noble  Wallace  fell, 

The  first  in  freedom's  van. 
Whose  name  still  sounds  like  a  magic  spell — 

And  Scotia  is  that  land. 

'Tis  teaming  with  heroes  that  mountain  land, 
The  home  of  the  Caledonian. 

All  other  lands  the  palm  must  yield 

To  Scotia's  daughters  fair; 
And  in  the  tented  battle-field 

Her  sons  are  foremost  there; 
Her  tartan-plaided  warriors 

Have  climbed  the  steeps  of  fame; 
Their  daring  deeds  the  wide  world  o'er 

Have  earned  a  deathless  name. 

'Tis  a  nation  of  heroes — den)'  it  who  can. 
The  home  of  the  Caledonian. 


ALEXANDER    WING  FIELD.  143 


The  Scotsman  need  not  blush  to  own 

The  land  lliat  gave  him  birtli 
For  her  name  is  known  from  zone  to  zone 

As  the  noblest  spot  on  earth. 
Should  the  foot  of  a  foe  e'er  dare  to  tread 

On  that  little  land  of  the  free, 
The  thistle  would  raise  his  stately  head 

Saying  "  You  mauna  meddle  wi'  me." 

It's  a  sturdy  plant  that  guards  our  land 
The  pride  of  the  Caledonian. 

Alexander  H.  Wingfield  was  born   in    1828,  at   Blanlyre,  Lanark- 
shire, Scotland,  in  a  house  situated  a  few  doors  from  the  one  in  which 
Dr.  Livingston,  the  celebrated  African   traveller,  first  saw   the  light. 
His  parents  removed  to  Glasgow  when  he  was  six  weeks  old,  and  he 
received  little  or  no  education,  as  he  was  sent  to  work  in  a  cotton 
factory  before  he  had  reached  his  tenth  birthday.     He  may  therefore 
claim,  and  deserves  credit  for  being  in  all  respects  a  self-made  man. 
In  1847  he  emigrated  to  America  and  settled  in  Auburn,  N.  Y.,  but 
three  years  later  he  went  to  Hamilton,  Ont.,  where  he  worked  as  a 
mechanic  for  eighteen  years  on  the  Great  Western  Railway.     For  the 
past  eleven  years  he  has  held  a  responsible  position  in  the  Canadian 
Customs  Department.     His  name  is  now  a  familiar  one  throughout 
Canada.     That  his  muse    had  lung  been  appreciated  by  the  public 
may  be  surmised  when  we  state  that  within   ten  days  after  the  first 
copy  of  his  book  was  ready  the  expense  of  the  whole  work  was  i)aid 
out  of  the  sale  of  it,  and  the  entire  edition,  consisting  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred copies,  was  disposed  of  in  the  short  space  of  stven  weeks.     The 
book  is  now  out  of  ])rint,  and  stray   copies  are  eagerly  picked  up  at 
advanced  prices  wherever    they  are   offered  for  sale.     He  does  not 
seem  to  have  composed  much  of   late,  and  in   concluding  our  sketch 
we  would  say  to  him  in  the  words  of  his  illustrious  friend,  Mr.  Andrew 
Wanlass: 

"Though  grief  has  racked  you  to, the  core, 
Take  up  your  harp — sing  as  in  yore; 
Ye  still  liac  monie  joys  in  store — 

I  hope  and  pray 
That  crape  may  ne'er  hang  on  your  door 

For  monie  a  day!" 


MALCOLM    TAYLOR,   Jr. 

I've  scanned  the  actions  of  his  daily  life 
With  ail  the  industrious  malice  of  a  foe  ; 
And  nothing  meets  mine  eyes  but  deeds  of  honor. 

Malcolm  Taylor,  Jr.,  poet  and  dramatist,  is  a  native  of  Dundee, 
where  he  was  born  in  1850.  Coming  to  this  country  with  the  other 
members  of  his  family  in  his  tenth  year,  he  was  given  a  careful  educa- 
tion, and  his  boyhood  glided  peacefully  into  manhood  surrounded  by 
all  the  pleasures  and  comforts  of  a  happy  and  moral  home.  On  com- 
pleting his  studies  he  was  sent  to  learn  the  plumbing  trade,  but  this 
proving  distasteful  to  him,  he  abandoned  it  and  entered  into  com- 
mercial  engagements  which  suited  him  better. 

There  are  few  Scotsmen  in  this  city  better  known  or  more  respected 
than  Malcolm  Taylor,  senior,  the  father  of  our  poet.  He  is  blessed 
with  very  fine  musical  qualities,  and  his  singing  of  many  of  the  old 
Scotch  songs  is  a  rare  treat  even  to  those  persons  who  do  not  hail 
from  the  land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood.  Previous  to  his  select- 
ing a  home  for  his  family  in  the  new  world  he  was  precenter  of  one  of 
the  principal  churches  in  Dundee,  besides  being  leader  for  many 
years  of  the  Dundee  Choral  Union. 

Our  author  at  an  early  age  gave  ample  evidence  of  possessing  true 
poetic  gifts.  His  mind,  even  at  school,  was  completely  wrajiped  up 
in  i)oetical  matters,  and  his  sole  ambition  at  one  time  was  to  become 
a  great  poet.  We  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  a  number  of  his 
early  musings,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  display  genuine  talent 
not  only  in  their  versification,  but  also  in  their  ideas  and  general  con- 
struction. They  are  bright  and  musical,  and  always  of  a  i)lcasing 
character.  Take  the  following  one,  for  instance  It  was  written  in 
his  fourteenth  year  and  published  in  a  well-known  New  York  weekly 
newspaper: 


MALCOM    TA  YLOK,  JR.  145 


LOVE'S  QUESTIONING. 


Do  you  love  me?     Tell — 

Does  your  hcarl  swift  beat 
And  your  bosom  swell 

When  I  talk  so  sweet? 
Docs  a  sudden  thrill 

Of  estatic  bliss 
Your  whole  body  fill 

When  our  lips  they  kiss? 

Do  you  love  me?    Tell — 

In  your  memory 
Does  there  always  dwell 

Pleasant  thoughts  of  me? 
Do  hours  like  days  seem 

When  I  am  not  nigh? 
Of  me  do  you  dream 

When  in  sleep  you  lie  ? 

Do  you  love  me?     Tell — 

Do  you  love  sighs  heave 
When  I  say  farewell  ? 

And  then  when  I  leave, 
Do  you  linger  still 

The  doorstep  upon. 
Watching  me  until 

From  sight  I  am  gone  ? 

Do  you  love  me?     Tell  — 

When  you  hear  the  chime 
Of  a  marriage  bell, 

Long  you  for  the  time 
When  we  too  shall  stand 

At  the  altar's  side. 
Linking  hand  in  hand. 

Having  love's  knot  tied? 

Do  you  love  me?    Tell — 

Love  mc  fond  and  true? 
In  your  looks  I  spell. 

What  tells  mc  you  do; 
But,  just  to  be  heard, 

Whisper  in  my  ear 
That  one  simple  word 

I  so  long  to  hear. 


146  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Do  you  love  me  ?    Tell — 

Why  still  are  you  dumb? 
Known  the  answer  well, 

But  yet  let  it  come. 
Do  you  love  me?  Speak — 

Darling  now  confess! 
Ah!  that  blushing  cheek! 

Your  reply  is — "  Yes." 

Nor  was  it  in  his  English  compositions  alone  that  Mr.  Taylor, 
through  his  early  efforts,  gave  promise  of  one  day  attaining  a  prominent 
position  among  the  poets.  He  seems  to  have  written  many  pieces  in 
his  mother  tongue  which  obtained  considerable  popularity  for  him 
among  his  countrymen.  Here  is  a  little  Scottish  lyric  which  he  com- 
posed in  his  fifteenth  year  and  which  proves  that  even  at  that  age  he 
possessed  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Doric  : 

BONNIE  GIRZIE  O'  GLENBRAE. 


Leeze  me,  lassie,  but  I  lo'e  thee, 

And  my  thochts  run  like  a  sang, 
As  the  burn  adoon  the  corrie, 

Louping  wi'  sheer  joy  alang. 
Gin  ye  knew  their  sang  by  hairt,  love. 

And  would  lilt  the  simple  lay, 
Oh,  how  happy  wad  it  mak'  me, 

Bonnie  Girzie  o'  Glenbrae. 

'Mang  the  lave  thee  only  lo'e  I, 

And  my  hairt  is  like  a  bloom, 
As  a  gowan  on  the  haugh-side, 

Bursting  wi'  love's  pure  perfume; 
Wad  ye  wear  my  modest  posy 

On  thy  bosom,  blest  for  aye. 
It  would  yield  its  inmost  spirit, 

Bonnie  Girzie  o'  Glenbrae. 

Wad  ye  sing  my  thochts,  my  dawtie, 

Yours  wad  lilt  fond  symphony; 
Wad  yc  wear  my  hairt-bloom  ever, 

Yours  wad  fellow-blossom  be; 
Sweet  wi'  joy  and  love  enduring, 

Song  and  bloom  wad  blend  alway, 
Liviii'  niciody  and  fragrance — 

Bonnie  Girzie  o'  Glenbrae. 


MALCOM    TA  YLOR,  JR.  I47 

On  comparing  ihc  above  pieces  with  any  of  our  author's  more  recent 
productions  we  will  at  once  notice  the  advancement  which  he  has 
made.  He  has  certainly  cultivated  his  talents  very  carefully  and  the 
result  is  that  his  muse  is  now  vigorous,  inspiring  and  scholarly.  In 
addition  to  this  there  is  a  love  of  nature  and  a  purity  of  feeling 
embodied  in  and  adding  a  lustre  to  all  of  his  later  work  that  is  not  to 
be  found  in  any  of  his  earlier  compositions.  Take  a  poem  entitled 
"  Hyacinth,"  which  he  composed  a  few  years  ago  and  we  will  readily 
note  the  difference: 

In  the  body-bulb  buried  low,  and  hid 

From  tlic  glint  of  human  eye,  and  sun, 
Like  a  lifeless  corse  'neath  a  coirm-lid, 

Longing  to  rise,  with  freedom  won, 
Lies  tlie  Hyacinth,  awaiting  the  birth 

From  a  dormant  state,  which  is  as  death, 
Till  Nature's  Christ  comes  on  the  earth. 

And  resurrects  it  with  living  breath. 

As  a  vague,  dim  hint  of  a  day  to  come. 

In  time  now  looms,  from  the  dark,  dank  mold, 
A  tip  of  green,  striving,  slow  and  dumb. 

With  feeble  force  its  powers  to  unfold; 
And  soon  on  the  surface  spread  vernal  arms. 

That  embrace  the  air   and  caress  the  light. 
Till  the  centre  stalk  feels  life's  fond  charms. 

And  rises  in  majestic  might. 

Then  a  cluster  of  stars  shoot  into  view, 

Petaled  Pleiades  to  gem  the  ground, 
And  lend  their  sheen  of  tender  hue 

To  illume  the  varied  scene  around;' 
Whilst  the  eyes  and  lips  of  the  budding  head 

The  smiles  and  breath  of  love  give  free, 
On  the  air  the  wealth  of  its  soul  to  shed, 

To  live  in  the  mind  eternally. 

Thus  the  poet's  soul,  innate  and  cold. 

Awaits  the  call  of  Nature's  God 
To  burst  from  its  gyves  of  human  mold. 

And  peer  above  the  insensate  sod. 
First,  looming  up,  one  struggling  thought 

Finds  expression,  as  the  hint  of  green; 
Then  his  mind,  with  ardent  feelings  fraught. 

Aspires  to  reach  to  heaven  serene. 


148  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Soon  his  fancies  teem  to  a  budding  head, 

And  crown  his  brain,  as  a  group  of  stars. 
Their  lustre  rare  around  to  shed, 

To  charm  the  sense  in  rhythmic  bars; 
While  his  thoughts,  like  arms,  stretch  wide  apart. 

The  sum  of  love  and  life  to  embrace, 
And  his  lips  and  tongue  give  voice  to  his  heart 

In  a  song  that  time  cannot  efface. 

Mr.  Taylor  revisited  Scotland  in  1874,  and  while  there  contributed 
numerous  articles  and  poems  to  the  NeiuYork  Scotsman.  One  of  the 
latter,  a  lengthy  poem,  entitled  "Mountain  Musings,"  appeared  in 
serial  form  and  was  universally  admired.  Another  lengthy  descriptive 
poem  which  he  composed  in  the  Highlands,  entitled  "  In  the  Wilder- 
ness," was  published  in  Hutnan  Nature,  a  well-known  London 
literary  magazine,  and  commanded  a  great  deal  of  praise  from  the 
critics  of  the  English  metropolis.  A  brief  excursion  through  Ayrshire 
further  inspired  his  muse  and  called  forth  a  very  fine  poem  on  Robert 
Burns,  from  which  we  make  two  extracts  : 

Now  let  me,  with  my  pen's  weird  wand,  forsooth. 

Waive  by  the  windings  of  his  young  life  path, 

The  petty  trials  he  had,  as  each  child  hath, 
Till  soon  we  see  him  as  a  reaper  youth; 
When,  bending  low  beside  some  winsome  Ruth 

To  bind  with  wheaten  gyves  the  levelled  swath. 

Or  gathering  up  the  golden  aftermath. 
He  tried  to  sing  the  love  he  felt  in  truth; 

Then  woke  the  poet's  spirit  in  his  form. 
Moved  was  his  hand  to  touch  the  latent  chords 
That  longed  to  give  expression  fair  in  words 

To  what  his  heart  felt  in  affection  warm; 
And  as  he  told  his  love  in  lilted  line 
He  wooed  the  willing  Coila,  muse  divine. 


And  now  behold  him.  Fashion's  pampered  child! 
The  Pet  of  wealth!  The  social  board  around 
His  favored  friends  did  reverence  profound, 

While  he,  with  his  own  songs,  the  time  beguiled 

Till,  with  that  Circe,  Pleasure's  draught  grown  wild 
Our  laverock  Rab  soon  had  his  sad  rebound 
And,  faulty,  fell  back  to  the  common  ground. 

To  sink  from  sight,  in  poverty  exiled; 


MALCOLM    TA  YLOJi,  JR.  149 


But  though  was  smirched  with  shame  in  touching  dross 
The  form  that  housed  liis  soul,  above  mere  pelf; 
Yet  crushed  not  was  the  tjelter  part  of  self; 

From  human  failings  suflcring  no  loss 
His  songs  lived  on  and  lingered,  still  sublime, 
Throuh  all  the  echoing  corridors  of  Time. 

In  1878  Mr.  Taylor  was  united  in  marriage  to  Mrs.  R.  E,  Scher- 
merhorn,  an  accomplished  lady  who  had  already  won  distinction  for 
herself  as  the  first  lady  attorney  of  the  city  of  Rochester.  During  the 
following  five  years  he  resided  at  their  magnificent  house,  Cascade,  on 
the  beautiful  shore  of  Owasco  Lake,  in  central  New  York.  While 
located  here  he  ventured  into  the  dramatic  field,  and  many  of  the 
plays  which  he  has  since  written  have  met  with  phenomenal  success. 
His  "Auld  Robin  Gra}-,"  a  dramatization  of  the  celebrated  ballad  of 
that  name,  was  pronounced  by  Mr.  James  H.  Stoddart,  the  eminent 
actor,  to  be  one  of  the  finest  Scotch  pastoral  plays  that  he  had  ever 
read.  The  above,  with  some  of  his  other  dramas,  such  as  "  The 
Afflicted  Family,"  "Rags  and  Boules,"  and  "Aar-u-a-goos  "  have  been 
published,  and  are  played  with  great  success  throughout  the  United 
States  each  season.  Through  the  channel  of  his  dramatic  writings 
our  author  gradually  drifted  into  the  theatrical  profession,  and  he  now 
holds  a  prominent  and  resposible  position  in  one  of  the  best  paying 
theatres  in  central  New  York.  While  cultivating  the  good  graces  of 
Thalia  and  Melpomene,  however,  he  did  not  altogether  forget  his  old 
love.  While  he  may  have  neglected  his  muse  for  the  time  being,  yet 
the  following  recently  composed  sonnets  will  prove  that  she  still 
lingers  within  his  reach  willing  to  be  wooed  by  him  at  all  times: 

LOVE'S  SUMMER. 


You  ask  me  am  I  lonely?     Not  at  all 
Though  thick  the  dun  October  clouds  may  loom 
And  wild  winds  cry  around  the  wail  of  doom 
That  summer's  vernal  foliage  finds  its  fall, 
I  mourn  not,  having  thee.     If,  like  a  pall, 
The  storm  docs  gather  close  about,  in  gloom 
To  shroud  me,  livened  by  the  June-like  bloom 
That  seems  to  spring  up  at  thy  cheery  call. 
The  earth,  that  otherwise  would  serve  to  load 
My  heart  with  heaviness,  at  prospects  sad, 
Now  seems  a  very  paradise,  so  glad 
My  spirit  is.     With  thee  to  walk  the  road, 
Though  knowing  that  it  led  to  regions  dark, 
Still  would  I  on  such  journey  fain  embark. 


I50  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


And  vvh}'?     Because  the  light  from  out  thine  eyes 

Makes  shining  bright  the  scene  with  sunny  smiles, 

And  thy  rich  laugh,  like  bird-trill,  still  beguiles 
The  passing  hour  with  music,  while  fast  flies 
Each  feathery  warbler  unto  warmer  skies, 

Each  blush-rose  that  my  word-warmth  without  wiles 

Brings  into  bloom  upon  thy  cheek,  denials 
To  no  great  purpose,  as  fair  flowers  apprize 
Me  that  my  love  finds  soil  within  thy  breast; 

Hence  in  thy  presence  summer  ever  stays. 

Since  smile,  and  laugh,  and  blush,  always 
Are  sun,  and  bird,  and  flower  to  me  most  blest, 

And  this  is  why,  in  seasons  dark  or  bright, 

I  in  thy  company  still  find  delight. 

Among  Mr.  Taylor's  poems  not  already  referred  to,  "A  Four-Leaf 
Clover,"  "  Six  Kisses,"  and  "  The  Violet's  Death  "  are  worthy  of 
special  mention  on  account  of  their  meritorious  character.  The  two 
latter  are  poems  of  considerable  length,  but  they  contain  many  noble 
passages,  together  with  numerous  lines  of  genuine  poetry.  His  verses 
addressed  to  "  Auld  Kirk  Alloway  "  are  in  excellent  taste  and  will 
always  be  kindly  remembered  by  Scotsmen  in  connection  with  this 
illustrious  old  ruin.     We  quote  a  few  verses: 

The  wild  rose  decks  your  broo  in  spring, 
Aroun'  your  form  the  ivies  cling 
Like  memories  dear,  while  Unties  sing 

Their  leal  love's  praise, 
As  Rab  did  his,  meandering 

On  Doon's  green  braes. 

*  *  *  * 

Your  wa's  still  stan',  though  roofless  lang, 
And  wi'  carse,  crumblin'  cild  nae  Strang, 
Sin'  syne  j-our  bell  in  peal  has  rang, 

Fu'  mony  a  wight 
Has  joined  the  dust  frae  whence  he  sprang. 

An'  gane  frae  sight. 

»  *  *  * 

As  lang's  the  lays  th^  ploughman  sung 
To  chords  o'  Coila's  lyre,  love-strung, 
Repeated  are  by  human  tongue, 

Fame  to  prolong, 
Ye  will  be  known  foremaist  among 

The  kirks  o'  song. 


I 


MALCOLM   TAYLOR,  JR.  151 

When  time  is  done,  tlic  poem  divine, 
Ilk  age  a  verse,  ilk  year  a  line, 
In  nac  ae  stanza  will  there  shine 

A  brichter  name. 
Than  his,  wha  gicd  ye,  ruined  shrine 

Your  storied  fame. 

Sac  fear  nac,  though  you're  fallin'  fast 

Ye  will  be  to  oblivion  cast, 

For  while  the  mind  o'  man  does  last. 

In  comin'  day 
Yc'II  live  in  glory  o'  tlic  past. 

Kirk  Alloway! 

It  will  readily  be  seen  from  these  specimens  of  the  poetical  writings 
of  Mr.  Taylor  tliat  he  possesses  all  the  qualifications  of  a  very  fine 
])oet.  He  is  just  entering  upon  the  prime  of  manhood,  and  we  feel 
confident  that  if  he  would  concentrate  his  powers  upon  some  one  sub- 
ject he  would  yet  produce  a  poem  worthy  of  his  youthful  ambition,  and 
which  would  entitle  him  to  rank  among  the  most  eminent  of  Scottish 
poets. 


ALEXANDER    M'LACHLAN. 

Creative  Genius  !  from  thy  hand 

What  shapes  of  order,  beauty,  rise, 
When  waves  thy  potent,  mystic  wand 

To  people  ocean,  earth  and  skies  ! 

Alexander  M'Lachlan  holds  a  prominent  position  in  the  circle 
of  Scottish  bards  who  have  made  for  themselves  a  home  in  the  new 
world.  A  native  of  Johnston,  in  Renfrewshire,  Scotland,  he  was  born 
in  the  year  1820.  His  father,  a  mechanic  to  trade,  was  possessed  of 
considerable  poetic  talent,  and  the  son  at  an  early  age  became  strongly 
imbued  with  his  spirit  and  soon  established  a  reputation  for  himself  in 
the  neighborhood  as  a  writer  of  rather  intelligent  verses.  His  educa- 
tion, however,  amounted  to  very  little,  and  it  certainly  speaks  well  for 
him  now  that  he  is  in  nearly  all  respects  a  self-educated  man.  As  a 
boy  he  was  fond  of  reading,  and  he  early  acquired  a  thorough  acquaint- 
ance with  history  and  general  literature.  His  father  died  while  return- 
ing from  a  visit  to  Canada,  leaving  a  Avidow  and  four  small  children 
uni)rovided  for.  Alexander  was  first  sent  to  work  in  a  cotton  factory, 
but  soon  left  this  occupation  and  became  a  tailor's  apprentice.  While 
a  young  man  he  took  an  active  interest  in  the  Chartist  movement,  and 
many  of  his  early  efforts  in  verse  were  full  of  sympathy  and  encourage- 
ment for  those  who  were  struggling  for  more  freedom.  In  1840  he 
emigrated  to  Canada  and  went  to  work  on  a  farm.  He  was  thus 
engaged  for  many  years,  during  which  time,  however,  he  gave  vent  to 
his  thoughts  and  reflections  in  poems  of  so  beautiful  and  valuable  a 
character  that  they  stamped  him  as  no  ordinary  man,  and  sent  his 
name  ringing  throughout  the  Dominion.  In  1855  he  vv;)s  induced  to 
publish  a  small  collection  of  his  poems.  It  met  with  a  ready  sale  and 
was  followed  in  1858  by  another  volume  entitled  "Lyrics,"  which  was 
also  accorded  a  favorable  reception.  Three  years  later  appeared  his 
"  Emigrant  and  Other  Poems,"  and  in  1874  "Poems  and  Songs,"  a 
large  8vo  volume,  containing  nearly  all  of  his  poetical  writings  up  to 
that  date.     The  opening  poem  in  the  last  named  volume  is  entitled 


ALEXANDER   M'LACIILAN.  153 

"God,"  and  is  probably  llic  fiiicbt  i)icce  of  poetry  which  Mr. 
M'Lachlan  has  written.  It  at  once  gives  us  an  idea  of  his  powers  as 
a  poet,  and,  as  one  writer  remarks,  "  is  ecjual  in  grandeur  and  sub- 
limity to  the  best  efforts  of  the  greatest  Anglo-Saxon  or  Celtic  poets." 
We  quote  a  few  stanzas: 

God  of  the  great  old  solemn  woods, 
God  of  the  desert  solitudes, 

And  trackless  sea: 
God  of  the  crowded  city  vast, 
God  of  the  present  and  the  past, 

Can  man  know  Thee  ? 

God  of  the  blue  sky  overhead. 

Of  the  green  earth  on  which  we  tread, 
Of  time  and  space: 

God  of  the  worlds  which  Time  conceals, 

God  of  the  worlds  which  Death  reveals 

To  all  our  race. 

From  out  thy  wrath  the  earthquakes  leap 
And  shake  the  world's  foundation  deep, 

Till  Nature  groans: 
In  agony  the  mountains  call, 
And  ocean  bellows  throughout  all 

Her  frightened  zones. 

But  when  thy  smile  its  glory  sheds, 
The  lilies  lift  their  lovely  heads, 

And  the  primrose  rare: 
And  the  daisie  decked  with  pearls 
Richer  than  the  proudest  earls 

On  their  mantles  wear. 

These  thy  preachers  of  the  wild-wood, 
Keep  they  not  the  heart  of  childhood 

Fresh  within  us  still  ? 
Spite  of  all  our  life's  sad  story, 
There  are  gleams  of  thee  and  glory 

In  the  daffodil. 

And  old  Nature's  heart  rejoices. 
And  the  rivers  lift  their  voices, 

And  the  sounding  sea: 
And  the  mountains  old  and  hoary 
With  their  diadems  of  glory, 

Shout,  Lord,  to  Thee! 


154  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

The  mysterious  in  nature  seems  to  be  a  fascinating  subject  for  our 
author,  and  one  at  which  his  muse  loves  to  draw  inspiration.  On  such 
occasions  his  writings  are  eloquent  and  profound  and  they  display  a 
large  amount  of  sound  philosophical  reasoning.  He  is  extremely 
earnest  in  purpose  and  no  one  can  fail  to  observe  the  sincere  longing 
with  which  his  heart  is  filled  for  a  knowledge  of  the  unseen.  There 
is  a  great  deal  more  than  poetry  in  his  verses  entitled  "  Mystery  ": 

Mystery!  mystery! 

All  is  a  mystery, 
Mountain  and  valley,  woodland  and  stream; 

Man's  troubled  history, 

Man's  mortal  destiny 
Are  but  a  phase  of  the  soul's  troubled  dream. 

Mystery!  mystery! 

All  is  a  mystery! 
Heart-throbs  of  anguish  and  joy's  gentle  dew, 

Fall  from  a  fountain 

Beyond  the  great  mountain. 
Whose  summits  forever  are  lost  in  the  blue. 

Mystery!  mystery! 

All  is  a  mystery! 
The  sigh  of  the  night  winds,  the  song  of  the  waves: 

The  visions  that  borrow 

Their  brightness  from  sorrow, 
The  tales  which  flowers  tell  us,  the  voices  of  graves. 

Mystery!  mystery! 

All  is  a  mystery! 
Ah,  there  is  nothing  we  wholly  see  through! 

We  are  all  weary. 

The  night's  long  and  dreary — 
Without  hope  of  morning  O  what  would  we  do? 

In  another  poem,  entitled  "  Who  Knows  ?"  we  have  verses  similar 
to  the  following  : 

From  deep  to  deep,  from  doubt  to  doubt, 

While  tlic  night  still  deeper  grows; 
Who  knows  the  meaning  of  this  life  ? 

Wlicn  a  voice  replied,  Who  knows  ? 

Shall  it  always  be  a  mystery  ? 

Are  there  none  to  lift  the  veil  ? 
Knows  no  one  aught  of  the  land  wc  left, 

Or  the  port  lo  which  wc  sail  ? 


ALEXANDER  M' LA  CI/LAN.  155 

Poor  shipwrecked  mariners  driven  about 

By  every  wind  that  blows; 
Is  there  a  haven  of  rest  at  all  ? 

And  a  voice  replies,  Who  knows  ? 

O  why  have  we  lonf(injrs  infinite 

And  aflections  deep  and  high; 
And  glorious  dreams  of  immortal  things. 

If  they  are  but  born  to  die? 

Are  they  but  will-o'-wisps  that  gleam 

Where  the  deadly  nightshade  grows  ? 
Do  they  end  in  dust  and  ashes  all  ? 

And  the  voice  still  cried,  Who  knows? 

No  poet  was  ever  blessed  with  a  finer  conception  of  the  beauties  of 
external  nature,  however,  than  the  subject  of  our  sketch.  He  has  a 
happy  faculty  for  describing  rural  scenes,  and  his  poems  entitled 
''  Spring,"  "  Indian  Summer,"  "  Far  in  the  Forest  Shade,"  "  The  Song 
of  the  Sun  "  and  "The  Hall  of  Shadows  "  are  replete  with  descriptive 
passages  of  the  very  highest  order  of  merit.  Mingling  with  his  poetry 
is  the  rich  perfume  of  buds  and  blossoms,  the  warble  of  the  birds,  the 
murmur  of  the  brook,  the  hum  of  insects  and  the  rustle  of  autumn 
leaves.  He  loves  them  all  with  the  love  of  a  poet,  and  his  muse  is 
ever  ready  and  delights  in  proclaiming  their  beauties,  whether  in  the 
field  or  the  forest,  the  highway  or  the  hillside.  The  following  may  be 
taken  as  a  specimen  of  his  descriptive  pieces: 

MAY. 


O  sing  and  rejoice! 

Give  to  gladness  a  voice, 
Shout  a  welcome  to  beautiful  May! 

Rejoice  with  the  flowers, 

And  the  birds  'mong  the  bowers, 
And  away  to  the  green  woods  away! 

O,  blithe  as  the  fawn 

Let  us  dance  in  the  dawn 
Of  this  life-giving,  glorious  day! 

'Tis  briglit  as  the  tirst 

Over  Eden  that  burst — 
O,  welcome,  young,  joy-giving  May! 

The  cataract's  horn 
Has  awakened  the  morn, 
Her  tresses  are  dripping  with  dew 


156  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

O  hush  thee,  and  hark! 

'Tis  her  herald  the  lark 
That's  singing  afar  in  the  blue, 

It's  happ)'  heart's  rushing, 

In  strains  wildly  gushing, 
That  reach  to  the  revelling  earth: 

And  sinks  through  the  deeps 

Of  the  soul  till  it  leaps 
Into  raptures  far  deeper  than  mirth. 

All  nature's  in  keeping! 

The  live  streams  are  leaping 
And  laughing  in  gladness  along; 

The  great  hills  are  heaving, 

The  dark  clouds  are  leaving, 
The  valleys  have  burst  into  song. 

We'll  range  through  the  dells 

Of  the  bonnie  blue  bells. 
And  sing  with  the  streams  on  their  way 

We'll  lie  in  the  shades 

Of  the  flower-covered  glades, 
And  hear  what  the  primroses  say. 

O  crown  me  with  flowers, 

'Neath  the  green  spreading  bowers, 
With  the  gems  and  the  jewels  May  brings; 

In  the  light  of  her  eyes. 

And  the  depth  of  her  dyes, 
We'll  smile  at  the  purple  of  kings. 

We'll  throw  off  our  years, 

With  their  sorrows  and  tears. 
And  time  will  not  number  the  hours 

We'll  spend  in  the  woods 

Where  no  sorrow  intrudes. 
With  the  streams,  and  the  birds,  and  the  flowers. 

Home  and  the  affections  also  claim  a  particular  niche  in  our  author's 

heart,  and  he  has  given  us  many  very  fine  poems  on  these  subjects. 

He  begins  one: 

"  Where'er  we  may  wander, 

Whate'er  be  our  lot 

The  heart's  first  affections, 

Still  cling  to  the  spot 

Where  first  a  fond  mother, 

With  rapture  has  prest, 
Or  sung  us  to  slumber 
^  In  peace  on  her  breast." 


ALEXANDER  M'LACIILAN.  I57 


But  the  finest  specimen  of  all,  is  his  well-known  poem  entitled,  "  Old 
Hannah,"  a  poem  so  real  and  yet  so  exquisite  in  construction  and 
finish  that  no  one  but  a  true  poet  could  have  conceived  and  written  it. 


OLD   HANNAH. 


'Tis  Sabbath  morn,  and  a  holy  balm 
Drops  down  on  the  heart  like  dew 

And  the  sunbeams  gleam 

Like  a  blessed  dream 
Afar  on  the  mountains  blue, 
Old  Hannah's  by  her  cottage  door, 
In  her  faded  widow's  cap; 

She  is  sitting  alone 

On  the  old  gray  stone, 
With  the  Bible  in  her  lap. 

An  oak  is  hanging  above  her  head, 
And  the  burn  is  wimpling  by; 

The  primroses  peep 

From  their  sylvan  keep, 
And  the  lark  is  in  the  sky. 
Beneath  that  shade  her  children  played, 
But  they're  all  away  with  Death, 

And  she  sits  alone 

On  that  old  gray  stone, 
To  hear  what  the  Spirit  saith. 

Her  years  are  o'er  threescore  and  ten. 
And  her  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 

But  the  page  is  bright 

With  a  living  light, 
And  her  heart  leaps  up  to  Him 
Who  pours  the  mystic  harmony 
Which  the  soul  can  only  hear: 

She  is  not  alone 

On  the  old  gray  stone, 
Tho'  no  earthly  friend  is  near. 

There's  no  one  left  to  love  her  now; 
■    But  the  eye  that  never  sleeps 
Looks  on  her  in  love 
From  the  heavens  above, 
And  with  quiet  joy  she  weeps; 
For  she  feels  the  balm  ol  bliss  is  pour'd 
In  her  lone  heart's  deepest  rut; 
And  the  widow  lone 
On  the  old  gray  stone 
Has  a  peace  the  world  knows  not. 


158  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


There  are  no  weak  of  frivolous  pieces  to  be  found  in  Mr,  M'Lach- 
lan's  latest  volume.  There  is  life  and  energy  and  strength,  and  true 
poetry  in  all  that  he  writes,  and  it  proceeds  from  him  naturally  and 
gracefully  at  all  times.  He  has  had  the  highest  encomiums  passed 
on  his  powers  as  a  poet  by  men  who  were  well  able  to  judge  of  his 
abilities.  Says  the  Rev.  Dr.  Dewart: — "As  long  ago  as  1864,  in  my 
'  Selections  from  Canadian  Poets',  1  said  of  Mr.  M'Lachlan:  '  It  is  no 
empty  laudation  to  call  him  the  Burns  of  Canada.  In  racy  humor,  in 
natural  pathos,  in  graphic  portraiture  of  character,  he  will  compare 
favorably  with  the  great  peasant  bard  ;  while  in  moral  grandeur  and 
beauty  he  frequently  strikes  higher  notes  than  ever  echoed  from  the 
harp  of  Burns.'  After  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  I  am  prepared  to 
stand  by  this  estimate  still." 

No  notice  of  our  author  would  be  complete  without  referring  to  his 
lyrical  pieces.  These  embrace  many  that  are  written  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  and  which  have  added  considerably  to  his  fame  as  a  poet. 
There  is  a  wealth  of  poetic  feeling  and  language,  simplicity  and 
tenderness  in  such  songs  as  "  Lovely  Alice,"  "  My  Love  is  Like  the 
Lily  Flower,"  and  "  Mary  White,"  that  is  not  to  be  met  with  in  the 
Scottish  song  of  to-day.  We  quote  the  following  as  a  specimen  of 
his  Doric.  The  title  has  long  since  become  a  familiar  proverb  with 
the  Scottish  people  : 

WE'RE  A"  JOHN  TAMSON'S  BAIRNS. 


O,  come  and  listen  to  my  sang, 

Nae  matter  wha  ye  be, 
For  there's  a  human  sympathy 

That  sings  to  you  and  me; 
For  as  some  Icindly  soul  has  said — 

All  underneath  the  starns, 
Despite  of  country,  clime  and  creed, 

Are  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

The  higher  that  we  sclim  the  tree 

Mair  sweert  are  we  to  fa', 
And,  spite  o'  fortune's  heights  and  houghs, 

Death  equal-aquals  a'; 
And  a'  the  great  and  mighty  anes 

Wha  slumber  'neath  the  cairns 
They  ne'er  forgot,  though  e'er  so  great, 

We're  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 


ALEXANDER  M'LACIILAN.  159 

Earth's  heroes  spring  frac  high  and  low, 

There's  beauty  in  ilk  place, 
There's  nac  inouupoly  o'  worth 

Amang  the  human  race; 
And  genius  ne'er  was  o'  a  class, 

Hut,  like  the  moon  and  starns, 
She  sheds  her  kindly  smile  alike 

On  a'  Jolin  Tamson's  bairns. 

There's  nae  monopoly  o'  pride — 

For  a'  wi'  Adam  fell — 
I've  seen  a  joskin  sae  transformed, 

He  scarcely  kent  himsel'. 
The  langer  that  the  wise  man  lives, 

The  mair  he  sees  and  learns, 
And  aye  the  deeper  care  he  takes 

Owre  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

There's  some  distinction,  ne'er  a  doubt, 

'Tween  Jock  and  Master  John, 
And  yet  it's  maistly  in  the  dress, 

When  everything  is  known; 
Where'er  you  meet  him,  rich  or  poor, 

The  man  o'  sense  and  barns, 
By  moral  worth  he  measures  a' 

Puir  auld  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

There's  ne'er  been  country  yet  nor  kin 

But  has  some  weary  flaw, 
And  he's  the  likest  God  aboon 

Who  loves  them  ane  and  a'; 
And  after  a'  that's  come  and  gane, 

What  human  heart  but  yearns, 
To  meet  at  last  in  light  and  love, 

Wi'  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

Among  the  poems  not  already  referred  to,  "The  Halls  of  Holy- 
rood,"  "  Martha,"  "  The  Settler's  Sabbath  Day,  '  "  Napoleon  on  St. 
Helena,"  *'  Wilson's  Grave  "  and  "  Up  and  be  a  Hero  "  prove  them- 
selves the  work  of  a  master  poet.  In  each  instance  the  diction  is  pure, 
the  rhyme  easy  and  flowing,  and  the  ideas  original  and  choice. 

"  His  '  Britannia'  and  '  Garibaldi,'  "  says  Dr.  Daniel  Clark,  "stir  us 

as  would  the  clarion  notes  of  a  bugle  call  on  a  battlefield.     His  '  Lang 

Heided    Laddie'    shows    his    quiet    humour,    versatility,    and    good- 

ntended  sarcasm.     His  '  Balaclava'  does  not  lose  by  comparison  with 


i6o  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA, 


Macaulay's  '  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,'  or  Aytoun's  '  Historic  Ballads  of 
Scottish  Chivalry.'  " 

One  other  poem,  which  we  are  unable  to  quote  on  account  of  its 
length,  deserves  special  mention,  viz :  "  Old  Adam."  This  is  one  of 
his  most  admired  productions.  The  description  of  the  old  man,  his 
peculiarities,  sympathies  and  desires,  are  all  graphically  set  forth,  and 
form  a  picture  which  is  at  once  interesting  and  true  to  life. 

"  He  was  nae  thing  that  stood  apart 
Frae  universal  nature: 
But  had  a  corner  in  his  heart 
For  every  living  creature." 

In  conclusion  we  would  allude  to  the  fact  that  at  a  public  meeting 
recently  held  in  Toronto  it  was  unanimously  resolved,  as  a  mark  of 
respect  to  the  genius  of  Mr.  M'Lachlan,  to  purchase  and  present  him 
with  the  valuable  farm  upon  which  he  now  resides.  And  surely  the 
poet  is  worthy  of  such  distinguished  recognition  at  the  hands  of  his 
admirers.  The  talents  entrusted  to  his  keeping  have  been  nobly 
employed,  and  have  yielded  an  abundant  harvest.  He  has  accom- 
plished the  work  he  was  sent  to  perform,  and  after  he  passes  to 
his  reward,  his  good  works  will  keep  his  memory  revered  and  honored 
among  the  sons  of  song  on  earth. 


WILLIAM     MURRAY. 

I  live  not  like  the  many  of  my  kind  ; 

Mine  is  a  world  of  feelings  and  of  fancies  ; 
Fancies,  whose  rainbow-empire  is  the  mind — 

Feelings,  that  realize  their  own  romances. 

William  Murray  was  born  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  1834,  at 
Finlarig,  Breadalbane,  Perthshire,  in  an  old-fashioned  house  close  by 
the  old  castle  of  Finlarig,  built  by  Black  Duncan,  head  of  the  then 
house  of  Breadalbane.  His  father,  Peter  Murray,  held  the  position  of 
liead  gardener  to  the  Breadalbane  estates  for  a  period  extending  over 
thirty-five  years.  He  was  an  intelligent,  straightforward,  God-fearing 
man,  and  to  this  day  is  kindly  remembered  by  all  who  knew  him.  He 
early  noticed  the  bright  faculties  with  which  his  son  was  endowed,  and 
he  spared  no  expense  in  providing  him  with  as  careful  and  as  complete 
an  education  as  was  to  be  procured  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  at 
the  time.  Shortly  after  finishing  his  studies  our  author  resolved  to 
strike  out  in  the  world  on  his  own  account,  and  emigrating  to  Canada 
found  himself  occupying  a  subordinate  position  in  a  mercantile 
establishment  in  Toronto  just  as  he  was  entering  upon  the  twenty- 
first  year  of  his  age.  He  has  always  been  industrious  and  earnest, 
and  fortune  has  showered  her  favors  on  him,  as  he  is  now  well  to  do 
in  every  sense  which  that  term  implies.  He  has  been  connected  for  a 
great  many  years  with  the  well-known  and  extensive  dry  goods  house 
of  Messrs.  A.  Murray  &  Co.,  Hamilton,  Ontario.  Mr.  Murray's  birth- 
place is  situated  in  one  of  the  most  picturesque  positions  in  the  High- 
lands, and  his  muse  takes  a  si)ecial  delight  in  winging  her  way  back 
and  describing  the  magnificent  and  historical  scenes  amid  which  he 
first  saw  the  light.  In  this  connection  his  poem  entitled  "  My 
Birthplace,"  and  inscribed  to  Mr.  Even  MacColl,  is  perhaps  the  finest 
of  all  his  productions.  It  contains  numerous  lines  of  true  poetry, 
together  with  many  beautiful  similes,  the  diction  is  good  and  pure, 
while  as  a  descriptive  poem  it  will  compare  favorably  with  the  work 


l62  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


of  many  of  the  author's   brother  bards.     We   make  the   following 
extracts  from  it : 

When  first  my  eyes  awoke  to  light, 
The  Grampian  hills  were  full  in  sight; 
The  Dochart  and  the  Lochay  joined, 
Repose  in  deep  Loch  Tay  to  find. 

»  *  *  * 

Not  far  beyond  lies  Fortingall 
The  scene  of  many  a  bloody  brawl; 
But  chiefly,  here  the  Roman  shield 
Was  driven  shattered  from  the  field: 
Here  Caesars  chivalry  first  felt 
The  metal  of  the  Highland  celt, 
And  with  his  finger  in  his  mouth 
Enquired  the  shortest  passage  south! 

Now,  rise  with  me  to  yonder  hill, 
Watered  by  many  a  crystal  rill. 
Covered  by  Scotia's  darling  heather. 
With  here  and  there  a  hill  bird's  feather, 
And  fox  glove's  mazy  tangled  knots. 
Holding  its  own  until  it  rots, 
And,  to  the  sportsman  ever  dear, 
The  grouse  and  blackcock  crouching  near, 
The  lark  rejoicing  up  on  high, 
The  eagle  swooping  through  the  sky. 
But  best  of  all  to  grazier's  eye, 
The  hardy  black  sheep  passing  by, 
Nibbling  away  with  sharp  white  teeth 
Their  perfumed  provender,  the  heath. 
And  never  deem  their  journey  high 
Till  hidden  in  the  misty  sky. 

*  *  *  * 

But  worse  than  blameful  would  I  be. 
Were  human  friends  forgot  by  me — 
Those  friends  who  cheered  my  early  years, 
Increased  my  joys  and  soothed  my  fears. 
Who  nursed  me,  taught  me  and  caressed  mc. 
And  when  I  left  them,  sighed  and  blessed  mc! 
However  primitive  their  talk, 
Unstudied  and  untrained  their  walk — 
Altiiu"  they  wore  the  simple  plaid 
Which  their  own  thrifty  hands  had  made. 
And  were  content  with  Highland  bonnets, 
Higliland  whiskey,  Highland  sonnets — 


WILLIAM  MURRAY.  163 


They  were  a  noble  race  of  men 
Whose  like  we  ne'er  shall  see  again — 
Their  faults  I  hardly  wish  to  hide, 
Their  virtues  I  admire  with  pride. 

«  *  *  • 

Yes,  while  I  here,  far  from  these  scenes, 
May  value  all  that  money  means, 
A  something  says,  with  thrilling  tones, 
"  In  Scotland  you  must  lay  your  bones," 

Another  very  fine  poem  by  Mr.  Murray  is  the  one  entitled  "  Rob  Roy," 
written  for  the  New  York  Scotsman  some  years  ago.  This  is  a  com- 
position of  considerable  length,  but  it  is  well  written,  the  interest  is 
sustained  throughout,  and  it  conveys  to  us  a  graphic  picture  of  the 
life  and  times  of  this  celebrated  Highland  chieftain  : 

As  he  proudly  stood  arrayed 
In  his  graceful  kilt  and  plaid, 
With  a  power  to  be  obeyed 

In  his  kingly  face, 
The  MacGregor  looked  the  head 

Of  a  noble  race. 

Noble  race  it  truly  was, 
Notwithstanding  Saxon  laws, 
And  the  chief  who  leads  its  cause 

Rules  it  heart  and  soul. 
See  him!  every  breath  he  draws 

Claims  supreme  control. 

True,  bold  Rob,  in  hours  of  sleep, 
Sometimes  captured  Lowland  sheep 
Which  the  owners  couldn't  keep. 

Lacking  strength  and  skill; 
Or  some  cattle  he  might  sweep 

From  some  Lowland  hill. 

He  believed  that  sheep  and  cattle 
Gave  a  kind  of  charm  to  battle, 
Which  improved  a  hero's  mettle 

And  (which  wasn't  worse) 
While  they  helped  his  nerves  to  settle, 

They  improved  his  purse. 

'Twas  the  simple  ancient  plan  , 

Taught  by  every  genuine  clan. 


i64  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

To  recover  from  each  man 

What  the  other  lost; 
Nor  did  one  or  other  scan 

Closely  what  it  cost. 


Clansmen  all,  the  story's  told, 
Many  years  have  come  and  rolled 
Since  we  first  in  Scotland  old, 

With  a  boyish  joy, 
Heard  of  all  the  doings  bold 

Of  the  brave  Rob  Roy. 

Thank  the  Lord  the  times  are  changed; 
Every  wrong  has  been  avenged; 
On  the  side  of  right'^are  ranged 

People,  Crown  and  Law — 
All  from  each,  no  more  estranged. 

Strength  and  glory  draw. 

Celt  and  Saxon  now  are  one, 
Fights  and  feuds  are  past  and  gone. 
And  o'er  Scotia's  mountains  lone 

Shedding  peace  and  joy, 
Queen  Victoria  fills  the  throne 

Of  the  bold  Rob  Roy. 

Although  frequently  pressed  by  his  friends  to  publish  a  collection 
of  his  poems  in  book  form  our  author,  thus  far,  has  refrained  from  doing 
so.  This  is  not  the  result  of  a  want  of  confidence  in  himself  or  a  fear 
as  to  what  the  verdict  of  the  public  might  be  at  such  a  step.  It  is 
simply  because  he  lacks  ambition,  or  more  properly  speaking  perhaps, 
is  too  unassuming  in  regard  to  his  own  merits.  While  he  admits  in  a 
recent  poetic  epistle  addressed  to  the  writer  that — 

"  We  rhymers  richly  relish  praise. 
And  when  a  nurse  like  you  displays 

In  such  attire, 
The  bairns  which  from  our  brains  wc  raise, 

We  go  on  fire — ' 

still  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that,  while  he  is  the  author  of  a 
sufficient  number  of  poems  to  fill  two  good-sized  volumes,  many  of 
his  pieces  have  appeared  in  magazines  and  newspapers  without  his 
name  or  even  his  initials   being  attached  to  them.      He   has  been 


WILLIAM  MURRA  Y.  1^.5 


actively  engaged  in  business  for  many  years,  but  in  the  midst  of  this 
busy  portion  of  his  life  he  has  had  moments  of  genuine  inspiration, 
moments  in  which  an  irresistible  force  has  compelled  him  to  lay  bare 
his  heart  and  feelings  in  poems,  epistles  and  lyrical  pieces  of  acknowl- 
edged merit.  He  writes  in  a  graceful  and  easy  style  and  his  muse 
generally  alights  on  subjects  which  are  interesting  as  well  as  instruc- 
tive. His  poems  are  skillfully  worked  out  and  contain  thoughts  and 
expressions  which  prove  that  he  possesses  a  fine  literary  taste.  His 
"Caledonians  and  the  Romans,"  "Epistle  from  St.  Andrew,"  "Our 
Ain  Snug  Little  House,"  "Canada  to  Uncle  Sam  "  and  "The  Scottish 
Plaid  "  are  very  creditable  productions  in  all  respects  and  will  always 
be  accorded  a  loyal  welcome  by  admirers  of  the  Scottish  muse.  'I'he 
last-named  piece  contains  no  less  than  forty-six  verses  and  illustrates 
the  mastery  which  our  author  still  retains  over  his  native  Doric  : 

The  plaid  amang  our  auld  forbears 
Was  lo'ed  owre  a'  their  precious  wares. 
Their  dearest  joys  wad  be  but  cares 
Withoot  the  plaid. 

And  when  the  auld  guidman  was  deid, 
'Twas  aye  by  a*  the  hoose  agreed. 
That  to  his  auldest  son  was  fee'd 
Mis  faither's  plaid. 

Ah!  gin  auld  plaids  could  speak  or  sing, 
Our  lieids  and  hearts  wad  reel  and  ring 
To  hear  the  thrillin'  tales  that  cling 
To  Scotia's  plaid. 

To  hear  hoo  Scottish  men  and  maids, 
'Mang  Scotland's  hills  and  glens  and  glades, 
Baith  wrocht  and  focht  wi'  brains  and  blades 
In  thae  auld  plaids. 

The  star  o'  Scotland  ne'er  will  set, 
If  we  will  only  ne'er  forget 
The  virtues  in  our  sires,  that  met 
Aneath  the  plaid. 

Amang  the  Scottish  sichts  I've  seen 
Was  ane  that  touched  baith  heart  and  ccn; 
A  shepherd  comin'  oure  the  green 
Wi'  crook  and  plaid, 

And  i'  the  plaid  a  limpin'  lamb. 
That  on  the  hill  had  lost  its  dam, 
And,  like  some  trustfu'  bairnie,  cam, 
Row'd  i'  the  plaid 


i66  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Anither  sicht  I  think  I  see, 
The  saddest  o'  them  a'  to  me — 
The  Scottish  martyrs  gaun  to  dee 
r  their  auld  plaids. 

But  let's  rejoice,  the  times  are  changed, 
The  mart3TS  hae  been  a'  avenged — 
An  English  princess  has  arranged 
To  wear  the  plaid. 

In  addition  to  the  poems  referred  to,  Mr.  Murray  has  written  many 
pieces  which  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  himself  and  his  daily  life.  These 
evince  true  poetic  talent  and  can  be  read  with  pleasure  and  profit  by 
all.  We  can  readily  trace  his  own  disposition  and  character,  for 
instance,  in  the  following  verses  : 

MY  FRIEND. 


Reserve  for  me  on  earth 
The  man  to  call  my  friend; 

In  whom  both  mental  worth 
And  heavenly  wisdom  blend. 

The  man  who  has  a  heart 
To  sympathize  with  grief, 

And  break  misfortune's  dart 
With  counsel  and  relief. 

The  man  whose  voice  will  never 
Unrighteousness  defend. 

But  scorneth  to  discover 
The  weakness  of  a  friend. 

The  man  who  stamps  to  dust 
Vile  slander  ere  it  grows, 

And  who  is  true  and  just 
Alike  to  friend  and  foes. 

The  man  who  worlds  can  trace. 
And  yet  in  whom  we  find, 

Combined  with  cultured  grace, 
Humility  of  mind. 

The  man  who's  not  ashamed. 
Though  lord  of  every  school, 

However  wise  and  famed. 
To  own  himself  a  fool. 


WILLIAM  MURRAY.  iCy 


Or,  in  a  word,  the  man, 

Beneath  affliction's  rod, 
Or,  liigh  in  fortune's  van, 

Who  glorifies  his  God. 

Standing  apart,  so  to  speak,  from  his  other  pieces,  and  beautiful  in 
their  workmanship  and  design,  are  the  numerous  religious  poems  and 
paraphrases  which  our  author  has  composed  from  time  to  time.  These 
form  a  cluster  of  fine  spiritual  thoughts,  and  serve  to  show  that  the 
seeds  of  piety  which  were  implanted  in  his  heart  in  youth-time  have 
retained  their  possession  and  are  now  bearing  good  fruit.  We  (juote 
as  a  specimen  of  these  religious  musings  the  one  entitled: 

RETURN  A  GENTLE  ANSWER. 

A    SERMON    IN    RHYME. 
"  A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath." — Proverbs. 

"  Return  not  ill  for  ill,"  be  thine 
To  imitate  thy  Lord  divine; 
Though  wrathful  lips  provoke,  let  mine 
Return  a  gentle  answer. 

The  world  may  sneer:  "perchance,"  it  says, 
"  Such  softness  suited  earlier  days. 
We  now  must  study  'manlier'  ways — " 
Return  a  scornful  answer. 

Receive  not  lessons  from  the  world, 
Its  wrath  but  rises  to  be  hurled 
Where  bafHed  pride's  dark  champion  gnarled 
Receives  his  awful  answer. 

The  Master's  lessons  are  the  best, 
And  they  alone  will  stand  the  test 
When  death,  each  mortal's  final  guest, 
Demands  his  solemn  answer. 

"  Reviled,  He  ne'er  reviled  again," 
Not  even  from  dread  Calvary's  pain, 
Where  innocence  for  guilt  was  slain, 
Escaped  a  vengeful  answer. 

Is  thy  reward  of  little  worth? 

Grasp  if  thou  canst  its  glorious  girth; 

Who  are  the  heirs  of  this  wide  earth  ? 

"The  meek?"  is  Christ's  own  answer. 


168  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

And  "  Blessed-God's  own  children!"  those 
Who  barter  benefits  for  blows, 
And  peace  establish  among  foes: 
Their  actions  are  their  answer. 

When  angry  words  arise,  forbear 
To  fan  the  flame  of  fury  there, 
And  show  the  scorner  that  you  dare 
Return  a  gentle  answer. 

Withhold  the  fuel  from  the  flame, 
And  soon  its  fierceness  will  turn  tame; 
So  wrath  unfed  by  angry  blame 
Will  soon  to  reason  answer. 

And  haply  he  who  was  thy  foe, 

Receiving  winsome  words  for  woe. 
Ashamed,  with  gratitude  may  glow 
To  thee  for  thy  kind  answer. 

Meek,  mild,  yet  manly  in  thy  life. 
Assist  to  lessen  sin  and  strife. 
Allay  contention's  tumults  rife 
With  th'  oil  of  a  soft  answer. 

And  on  thy  happy  head  shall  fall 

The  joy  which  shall  belong  to  all 

Who  at  the  blessed  Master's  call 

Are  ready  with  their  answer. 

Acrostics,  as  a  general  rule,  are  of  little  value  to  anyone,  but  our 
nuthor  who  seems  to  have  a  particular  liking  for  this  fantastic  style  of 
composition,  has  written  a  few  which  are  worthy  of  perservation. 
Such,  for  instance,  is  the  one 

TO  WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  the  Earl  and  Countess  of 
Breadalbanc,  at  Taymouth  Castle,  Oct.  1883. 

Welcome  to  Taymouth,  grandest  of  grand  men! 
I  liken  thcc  to  a  Breadalbanc  ben. 
Leaving  the  hillocks  at  thy  feet  below. 
Looking  abroad  beneath  a  crown  of  snow. 
In  thcc  Breadalbanc  honors  all  who  claim, 
A  share  in  thine  and  Britain's  matchless  fame. 
Monarchs  tlieir  merits  still  may  faintly  plead. 


WILLI  A  Af  MURRA  Y.  169 


England's  great  Gladstone  is  a  king  indeed. 
William  the  Norman  conquered  with  the  sword, 
A  greater  William  conquers  with  a  word, 
Resistless  as  the  thunderbolt  that  cleaves 
The  storm  cloud  which  around  Schihallion  heaves. 

God  bless  thee,  noble  chanii)ioii  of  right! 
Lions  nor  Launcclots  can  withstand  thy  might. 
Angels  in  legions  arc  upon  thy  side, 
Demons  and  dastards  from  thy  halberd  hide. 
Scotland  remembers  whence  thy  brilliant  blood, 
The  Highlands  claim  thee  from  before  the  Hood. 
O'er  all  the  rolling  world  thy  fame  resounds. 
Nor  even  can  the  bards  define  its  bounds, 
Enjoy  Breadalbane's  famous  house  and  grounds. 

Mr.  Murray  has  been  elected  for  a  succession  of  years  as  one  of  the 
Bards  of  the  Hamilton  St.  Andrew's  Society,  and  is  now  senior  Bard  of 
the  Caledonian  Society.  As  such  it  becomes  his  pleasant  duty  each 
year  to  present  to  those  associations  original  poems  in  connection 
with  the  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Robert  Burns,  St.  Andrew's 
day,  etc.  These  compositions,  of  course,  contain  a  great  deal  of 
what  is  merely  of  local  interest,  but  there  are  also  embodied  in  their 
lines  many  happy  and  patriotic  allusions  to  Scotland  which  are 
especially  pleasing  to  those  who  hail  from  the  "Land  of  Cakes." 
Among  the  smallest  poems  which  we  have  met  with  on  the  Ayrshire 
Bard  is  the  following  : 

A  LINE  ON   BURNS. 


His  like  we  ne'er  again  will  find, 

Such  kings  have  no  successors; 
But  of  the  treasures  of  his  mind 

All  nations  are  possessors; 
And  while  the  vault  of  heaven  glows 

And  earth  endures  below  it, 
So  long  resplendent  lives  and  grows 

The  fame  of  Scotland's  poet. 

On  December  i,  1888,  Mr.  Murray  addressed  the  following  words 
of  welcome  to  His  Excellency,  The  Right  Honorable  Lord  Stanley 
of  Preston,  Governor-General  of  Canada,  on  the  occasion  of  his  first 
visit  to  Hamilton,  Ontario: 


I70  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


A  WELCOME  TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY. 


Welcome  to  Hamilton,  Lord  Stanley!  First, 

Because  you  represent  our  Gracious  Queen — 
The  first  and  best  of  sovereigns — who  has  nursed, 

What  Earth's  old  orb  till  now  has  never  seen, 
A  family  of  free  nations,  blest  with  all 

That  loyal  hearts  can  ask  or  love  bestow; 
Ready  to  rally  round  her  throne  at  call, 

And  guard  her  empire  'gainst  its  fiercest  foe. 

And,  secondly,  we  welcome  you  because 

You  are  yourself  entitled  to  esteem. 
As  one  of  that  great  race  whose  lives  were  laws 

To  knights  and  nobles,  and  whose  glories  gleam 
Not  only  in  old  England's  mightiest  wars. 

But  also  'mong  her  Senate's  brightest  stars. 

In  conclusion,  we  would  state  that  while  Mr.  Murray  has  never 
tasted  of  matrimonial  joys  his  lot  in  life  is  by  no  means  an  unhappy 
one.  He  enjoys  a  large  circle  of  friends,  is  respected  by  all,  and  is 
ever  ready  to  lend  assistance  wherever  and  whenever  required.  He  is 
the  author  of  many  poems  which  deserve  to  be  better  known  than 
they  now  are,  and  we  hope  that  he  will  yet  be  induced  to  place  a 
collection  of  his  writings  in  a  permanent  form  before  the  public. 


MAJOR-GEN.  DONALD  CRAIG  McCALLUM. 

He  drew  his  light  from  that  he  was  amidst 
As  doth  a  lamp  from  air  which  hath  itself 
Matter  of  light,  altho'  it  show  it  not. 

Donald  Craig  McCallum  was  a  native  of  Jolinstone,  in  Ren- 
frewshire, and  was  born  in  1815.  His  parents  originally  came  from 
CanipbclUon  in  Argyleshire,  and  his  father  followed  the  occupation 
of  a  tailor.  In  1832  the  entire  family  emigrated  to  America  and  took 
up  their  residence  at  Rochester,  N.  V.  Our  author  first  mastered  the 
tailoring  trade,  and  then,  for  some  reason,  becoming  dissatisfied  with 
it,  crossed  over  to  Canada  and  went  to  work  to  learn  the  trade  of  a 
carpenter  with  a  firm  at  Lundy's  Lane.  During  the  term  of  his 
apprenticeship  we  learn  that  "  he  attended  night  school  and  made 
great  progress  in  geometry  and  mathematical  studies  generally.  He 
gave  much  of  his  leisure  time  also  to  the  study  of  architecture,  and 
soon  became  a  capable  and  skilful  designer."  Having  completed  his 
apprenticeship  and  studies  he  returned  to  Rochester,  where  he  suc- 
cessfully conducted  a  business  on  his  own  account  for  a  number  of 
years.  In  1851  he  invented  what  is  known  as  the  "inflexible  arch 
truss  bridge,"  and  was  afterwards  engaged  in  superintending  the  con- 
struction of  various  bridges  and  railroads.  During  the  war  he  was 
made  director  and  general  manager  of  military  railroads  with  the  rank 
of  Colonel,  United  States  Army,  and  history  will  always  shed  a  lustre 
on  his  name  on  account  of  the  valuable  services  which  he  rendered  to 
the  nation  at  that  period.  We  quote  the  following  from  Mr.  John 
Laird  Wilson's  excellent  biography  of  him  : — "  It  had  become  evident 
to  all  that  a  great  struggle  was  about  to  take  place  at  Chattanooga. 
Stanton  was  anxious  that  there  should  be  no  failure,  and  that  Grant 
should  deal  Bragg  a  final  and  crushing  blow.  To  make  matters  more 
secure  it  was  deemed  advisable  to  reinforce  Grant.  The  great  cpies- 
tion,  however,  was  how  to  get  the  troops  transferred  from  the  Rapidan 


in  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


to  Stevenson,  Ala.,  in  time  to  be  of  service.  It  was  a  distance  of 
twelve  hundred  miles.  It  was  the  opinion  of  General  Halleck  that 
the  task  was  next  to  impossible — that  the  transfer  of  so  many  men  with 
all  the  appurtenances  of  war  could,  certainly,  not  be  accomplished  in 
less  than  six  weeks.  McCallum  was  sent  for  and  appealed  to.  The 
transfer,  he  thought,  might  be  accomplished  in  seven  days.  Halleck 
pronounced  it  impossible.  It  could  not  be  done  !  McCallum  made 
his  conditions.  He  must  have  absolute  control  of  the  railroads  and 
be  permitted  to  seize  engines  and  cars  wherever  he  could  hnd  tliem. 
The  conditions  were  granted.  The  trains  were  set  in  motion,  and 
within  the  time  specified  the  task  was  accomplished.  As  a  feat  of 
military  railroading  that  transfer  of  the  Eleventh  and  Twelfth  corps 
of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  stands  unparalleled  in  history.  McCal- 
lum's  services  on  this  occasion  were  rewarded  with  the  rank  of  major- 
general.  His  services  were  equally  conspicuous  and  equally  valuable 
during  the  Sherman  campaigns,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  but 
for  McCallum  and  his  department  the  march  to  the  sea  might  have 
proved  a  failure."  One  is  scarcely  prepared  to  believe  after  reading 
the  above  that  General  McCallum  was  a  poet  of  no  mean  order  of 
merit.  Indeed,  many  of  his  poems  are  of  a  very  high  order  of  merit, 
and  entitle  him  to  an  honorable  niche  among  the  more  prominent  of 
the  minor  Scottish  bards.  There  is  something  manly  and  real  and 
thoughtful  in  all  that  he  has  written,  and  his  muse  never  alighted  on 
anything  which  she  did  not  beautify  and  make  more  valuable.  In 
1870  he  issued  a  small  volume  of  his  poems,  and  this  has  long  since 
been  out  of  print.  The  volume  opens  with  the  following  quotation 
from  one  of  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell's  beautiful  poems  : 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 

Once  in  a  century. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 

One  simple  word  wliich  now  and  then 
Shall  waivcn  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 

And  friendless  sons  of  men. 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 

Which  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 

In  the  untutored  heart. 


MAJORGEN.  DONALD   CRAIG  MCCALLUM.  173 

lM)lknving  these  lines  are  many  very  fine  poems,  not  a  few  of  which 
have  already  acquired  considerable  popularity.  "  llic  Water  Mill," 
for  instance,  is  known  in  all  English-speaking  countries,  and  is  no 
doubt  the  poem  on  which  the  author's  reputation  as  a  poet  will  last. 
The  General  was  very  proud  of  this  production,  and  was  fre<iuently 
pained  by  seeing  weak  and  frivolous  imitations  of  it,  bearing  the 
sauie  title,  and  going  the  rounds  of  the  press.  We  quote  herewith 
the  poem  from  the  author's  copy  : 

THE  WATER   MILL. 


Oil,  listen  to  the  water  niiil,  tiiruugii  all  the  live-lung  daj-, 
As  the  clicking  ul  the  wliuel  wears  hour  by  h(;ur  awa)'. 
How  languidly  the  anlumn  wind  dotu  stir  ilie  withered  leaves, 
As  on  tlie  tield  the  reapers  sing  while  binding  up  the  sheaves. 
A  solemn  proverLi  strikes  my  mind, and,  as  a  spell,  is  cast, 
"  Tlie  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water  that  is  past." 

Soft  summer  winds  revive  no  more  leaves  strewn  o'er  earth  and  main; 

The  sickle  never  more  will  reap  the  yellow-garnered  grain. 

The  rippling  stream  Hows  ever  on,  aye,  tranquil,  deep  and  still. 

But  never  glideth  back  again  to  busy  water  mill. 

The  solemn  proverb  speaks  to  all  with  lueaniug  deep  and  vast, 

"The  mill  will  never  grind  again  wiih  water  that  is  past." 

Uh!  clasp  the  provertj  to  thy  soul,  dear  loving  heart  and  true, 
Vox  golden  years  are  fleeting  by  and  youth  is  passing  too. 
Ah!  learn  to  make  the  most  ol  liie,  nor  lose  one  happy  day; 
For  time  will  ne'er  return  sweet  joys,  neglected — turowii  away; 
Nor  leave  one  lender  word  unsaid — tliy  kindness  sow  broadcast, 
■'The  null  will  never  grind  again  with  watet  that  is  past." 

Oh!  the  wasted  hours  of  life  that  have  swiftly  drifted  by; 
Alas!  the  good  we  might  have  done,  all  gone  without  a  sigh. 
Love  that  we  might  once  have  saved  by  a  single  kiudl)'  word — 
Thoughts  conceived  but  ne'er  expressed, perishing  unpenned,  unheard, 
Oh!  take  the  lesson  to  thy  soul,  forever  clasp  it  fast, 
"The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water  tliat  is  past." 

Work  on  while  yet  the  sun  doth  shine,  thou  man  of  strength  and  will, 

The  streamlet  ne'er  doth  useless  glide  by  clicking  water  mill; 

Nor  wait  until  to-morrow's  light  beams  briglitly  on  thy  way, 

For  all  that  thou  can'st  call  thine  own  lies  in  the  phrase  "  io-d.-iy." 

Possessions,  power  and  blooming  health  must  all  be  lost  at  last, 

"  The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water  that  is  past," 


t74  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Oh!  love  thy  God  and  fellow-man — this  comprehendeth  all, 
High  Heaven's  universal  plan,  here  let  us  prostrate  fall; 
The  wise,  the  ignorant  may  read  this  simple  lesson  taught. 
All  mystery  or  abstruse  creed  compared  therewith  are  naught. 
On!  brothers  on!  in  deeds  of  love,  for  life  is  fleeting  fast. 
"The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water  that  is  past." 

Embodied  in  the  General's  compositions  are  many  very  fine  descrip- 
tive passages  which  prove  him  to  have  been  a  keen  observer  and  an 
intense  admirer  of  the  beauties  of  external  nature.  Here  and  there 
in  his  poems  we  come  upon  many  notable  word  pictures  which  pho- 
tograph themselves  upon  our  minds  and  make  us  wish  that  he  had 
devoted  a  few  more  of  his  leisure  hours  to  this  particular  style  of  com- 
position. In  his  poem  entitled  "The  Warning  Voice,"  for  instance, 
we  find  the  following  lines  wedged  in  between  a  mass  of  theological 
and  philosophical  facts  and  reasonings  : 

"'Twas  early  autumn: 
The  rustling  leaves  arose  and  fell  upon 
The  gentle  winds,  resplendent  in  decay. 
More  beautiful  in  death  than  life  were  they; 
O'er  rugged  rocks  the  streamlet  wildly  dashed, 
Anon,  in  ripplings  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
Sighed  to  the  sombrous  woods  its  plaintive  song." 

From  what  is  perhaps  the  most  peculiar  of  all  our  author's  pieces, 
"  The  Madman's  Reverie,"  we  quote  the  following  as  a  specimen  of 
his  command  of  language  and  force  of  expression  : 

Ha!  ha!  prate  not  to  me  of  hope. 
While  damned  souls  in  darkness  grope! 
Who  ne'er  hath  seen  blest  happy  hour. 
That  fate  did  not  o'ertake,  devour! 
Yea!  followed  on  as  demon  would 
A  soul  condemned,  bereft  of  good! 
Relentless  as  his  brother  Death 
To  claim  his  own!  List  what  he  saith: 

"  When  born,  thy  fate  was  in  me  bound, 
I've  followed  thee  the  world  around, 
I've  shown  thee  pleasure,  but  to  dash 
It  from  thee  with  swift  thrilling  crash! 
Ha!  curses  on  thy  lips  I  hail 
As  glorious  triumphs!     Do  not  fail 
To  gorge  thy  soul  in  gloom  and  hate, 
This  is  thy  doom — thy  curs6d  fate!" 


MAJOR-GEN.  DONALD    CRAIG  MCCALLUM.  175 

Quite  a  large  number  of  the  General's  compositions  display  a  hiph 
moral  tone  of  thought,  and  as  religious  poems  are  exrcllcnt  creations. 
They  contain  suggestions  which  appeal  to  our  better  feelings,  and  no 
one  who  reads  them  can  for  a  moment  doubt  that  he  was  a  man  who 
honored  his  Maker  in  sincerity  and  truth  at  all  times.  Many  of  these 
poems  are  in  manuscript  only,  but  from  among  those  printed  in  the 
volumereferred  to  we  select  the  following  as  a  sjjccimen  of  the  whole  : 

BE  KIND  TO  THE  ERRING. 


Be  kind  to  the  erring,  the  humble,  the  meek, 
'Tis  coward  alone  who  would  trample  the  weak. 
Ye  know  not  how  deeply  the  past  they  deplore, 
In  charity  cover  their  sins  evermore. 

Be  kind  to  the  erring,  the  lowly,  the  sad, 
Oft  circumstance  ruleth,  whose  chain  driveth  mad; 
Ah!  boast  not  thy  virtue,  but  con  thy  heart  o'er. 
Communion  with  self  crusheth  pride  evermore. 

Commune  with  thyself,  think  how  reckless  thou  art, 
Enriching  thy  coflfers  to  wither  thy  heart, 
Take  warning  by  thousands  on  yonder  dark  shore, 
Remember  thy  soul  must  exist  evermore. 

Love  good  for  good  only,  nor  measure  thy  gain, 

Such  motives  are  sordidi)'  selfish  and  vain. 

Strewing  blessings  all  round  thee,  with  heart  gushing  o'er 

Flowing  on  to  the  ocean  of  love  evermore. 

Religion  is  nothing,  pretensions  are  vain. 
If  works  are  still  wanting,  ah!  where  is  thy  gain  ? 
As  bark  cast  away  on  some  desolate  shore — 
As  wreck  on  the  deep  thou  art  gone  evermore. 

Thy  days  fleet  away  as  a  meteor's  gleam. 
Flashing  bright  for  a  moment  they  fade  as  a  dream; 
Yea!  dream  though  it  be,  yet  on  far  distant  shore 
Shall  in  thunders  re-echo  the  past  evermore. 

As  flowers  dost  thou  blossom,  mere  thing  of  a  day, 
As  breath  of  the  flower  thou  wilj  vanish  away; 
Let  love  be  thy  motto  this  gloomy  life  o'er, 
Then  in  sunshine  of  love  wilt  thou  bask  evermore. 

Mr.  Wilson,  who  has  carefully  read  over  General  McCallum's  un- 
published writings,  places  a  very  high  estimate  on  his  powers  as  a  poet. 


176  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

"  His  works,"  he  says,  *' are  not  mere  jingles  of  meaningless  rhymes. 
On  the  contrary,  they  are  the  outpouiings  of  a  soul  in  which  poetry 
and  philosophy  are  strangely  and  wonderfully  combined — a  soul 
deeply  in  love  with  all  that  is  true  and  beautiful  and  good,  in  harmony 
with  all  that  is  noblest,  purest,  sweetest  in  the  universe  of  God.  Mc- 
Callum  wrote  poetry  for  the  same  reason  that  the  lark  sings — he  could 
not  he]])  it.  He  wrote  poetry  not  because  he  wished  to  be  a  poet,  but 
because  he  was  obedient  to  the  spirit  that  was  in  him."  Among  the 
finest  of  his  published  poems  not  already  referred  to  are  "  The  Creed 
of  Life,"  "A  Dream,"  "Soldiers  Song  of  Freedom,"  "An  O'er  True 
Tale,"  "Solemn  Thoughts,"  and  "The  Rainy  Day."  These  are  ele- 
vating, pure  and  poetic  in  every  sense.  As  a  specimen  of  his  lyrical 
powers  we  quote  one  of  the  numerous  songs  which  he  composed  in 
his  mother  tongue  : 

SONG— BESSIE  DEAR. 


O  Bessie  dear,  I  ne'er  can  tell 

The  love  I  have  for  thee; 
O  meet  me  in  yon  fair}'  dell, 

Down  by  the  hawthorne  tice. 
Down  by  the  hawthorne  tree,  my  dear, 

The  warbling  burnie  rins; 
O  come,  my  dearie — dinna  fear — 

The  bravest  heart  aye  wins, 

The  bravest  heart  a)'e  wins,  my  dear,  etc. 

Thy  rosy  lips,  thy  gowden  hair, 

Doth  haunt  me  all  the  while; 
Thou  drivest  me  to  keen  despair 

By  thy  sweet  angel  smile. 
The  lily  in  yon  flow'ry  dale, 

Nae  purer  is  than  thee; 
The  sparkling  gem  doth  surely  pale 

Beneath  thy  bonnie  e'e. 

Beneath  thy  bonnie  e'e,  my  dear,  etc. 

As  magnet  to  the  pole,  my  dear, 

Sae  true's  my  love  for  thee — 
Where'er  I  roam,  be't  far  or  near — 

On  land  or  raging  sea. 
Then  come  my  dearie — dinna  wait — 

Thou'rt  world  and  a'  to  me; 
O  meet  me  at  the  trysting  gate 

Down  by  the  hawthorne  tree, 

Down  by  the  hawthorne  tree,  my  dear,  etc. 


MAJORGEN.  DONALD   CRAIG  MC GALIUM.  177 

"  General  McCalliim  had  a  commanding  presence,"  writes  Mr.  Wil- 
son. "  In  his  younjfer  years,  with  iiis  hnig  black  hair  falling  in  curls  on 
his  shoulders  and  his  magnificent  beard  resting  in  wavy  folds  on  his 
manly  breast,  over  six  feet  in  height,  erect  of  stature,  light  and  grace- 
ful in  all  his  movements,  he  must  have  been  a  handsome  and  attractive 
man.  Even  in  these  later  years  he  was  a  conspicuous  figure  in  any 
company;  and  he  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  the  respect  which  his 
presence  commanded.  Now  that  he  is  gone  those  who  knew  him 
best  will  miss  him  most.  His  memory  will  long  be  green  in  many  a 
chosen  circle  ;  but  we  shall  not  soon  see  his  like  again." 

A  day  or  two  before  the  General  jjassed  away  (December  27,  1878) 
Mr,  Wilson  called  at  his  residence  and  was  admitted  into  the  sick 
chamber.  The  dying  man  knew  that  his  end  was  fast  approaching, 
and,  taking  hold  of  his  friend's  hand,  he  said  :  "  John,  after  I  am 
gone  will  you  see  that  my  memory  is  taken  care  of  ?"  "  I  will,  General," 
answered  Mr.  Wilson,  softly,  and  shortly  afterwards  withdrew.  Nor 
was  the  promise  forgotten  ;  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  tasteful 
of  the  many  articles  which  Mr.  Wilson  continued  to  contribute  to  the 
Nexu  York  Scotsman^  even  after  he  had  retired  from  the  editorship  of 
that  paper,  was  the  one  on  the  life  and  work  of  his  late  friend,  Major- 
General  Donald  Craig  McCallum. 


JOHN    PATTERSON. 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years — in  thoughts,  not  breaths — 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial; 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most — feels  the  noblest — acts  the  best. 

Mr.  John  Patterson,  the  subject  of  our  present  sketch,  is  the 
author  of  a  number  of  beautiful  poems  and  lyrical  pieces.  While  he 
is  by  no  means  a  voluminous  writer  of  poetry,  nor  makes  any  claim 
to  the  title  of  poet,  yet  the  various  effusions  which  he  has  published 
from  time  to  time  prove  him  to  be  possessed  of  fine  intellectual  quali- 
ties and  true  poetic  gifts.  His  muse  is  simple  but  melodious,  full  of 
feeling,  pure  in  expression  and  deeply  imbued  with  piety  and  a  love 
for  all  that  is  noble  and  good.  Mr.  Patterson  was  born  at  Inverness 
in  1831.  His  father  was  a  seafarmg  man,  and  his  ancestors  had  fol- 
lowed the  same  occupation  for  many  generations.  The  family  con- 
sisted of  four  sons  and  three  daughters,  all  of  whom  were  early  sent 
to  school  and  received  a  good  common  English  education.  On  com- 
pleting their  studies  the  sons  were  apprenticed  to  useful  trades,  the 
one  selected  for  our  author  being  that  of  a  compositor  or  printer.  He 
had  no  particular  liking  for  this  trade  at  the  time,  but  he  applied  him- 
self diligently  to  master  it,  and  before  the  term  of  his  apprenticeship 
had  expired  was  complimented  on  his  being  a  skilful  and  competent 
workman.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two,  and  with  a  view  of  bettering  his 
condition  in  life,  he  left  Inverness  and  proceeded  to  Glasgow,  where 
he  took  passage  for  New  York.  "  I  left  Glasgow,"  he  writes,  "  in  the 
autumn  of  1853,  and  after  a  passage  of  sixty-six  days,  in  an  old  packet- 
ship,  with  about  two  hundred  others,  arrived  at  Staten  Island.  During 
the  voyage  tyjihoid  fever  broke  out  among  the  passengers,  several  of 
whom  died  and  were  buried  at  sea.  About  a  week  before  we  landed 
I  was  stricken  with  it,  and  on  our  arrival  had  to  be  taken  to  Quaran- 
tine Hospital,  which  was  then  on  Staten  Island,  and  where  I  remained 
for  two  months."     On  his  recovery  he  readily  obtained  employment 


JOHN  PATTERSON.  179 


at  his  trade,  and  has  been  in  comfortable  circumstances  ever  since. 
Prosperity,  however,  never  obliterated  or  dimmed  the  recollection  of 
his  boyhood's  Highland  home,  and  after  an  absence  of  nearly  twenty 
years  in  this  country,  he  composed  the  following  lines  in  connection 
with  it: 

SWEET  HOME  OF  MY  YOUTH. 


Sweet  home  of  my  youth,  near  the  murmuring  rills 
That  are  nursed  in  the  laps  of  the  North  Scottish  hills, 
Ere  the  gray  streaks  of  morning  the  songster  arouse 
From  his  leaf-curtained  cot  to  his  matinal  vows, 
My  thoughts  cling  to  thee,  and  lovingly  press, 
Sweet  home  of  my  youth,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ness. 

When  the  gay  king  of  light  dofTs  his  gladdening  crown, 
And  mantles  the  land  with  his  evening  frown; 
When  night's  sombre  cov'ring  the  earth's  overlaid, 
And  nature  is  mourning  the  day  that  is  dead, 
Then  lov'd  thoughts  of  thee  do  I  fondly  caress, 
Sweet  home  of  my  youth,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ness. 

Though  thy  little  Hower-garden  twice  ten  times  has  lost 
Its  bright  summer  garb  since  thy  threshold  I've  cross'd; 
Though  Atlantic's  wide  waters  our  fortunes  divide; 
Still,  not  time  nor  space  from  my  memory  can  hide 
Or  dampen  the  love  I  am  proud  to  confess 
For  the  home  of  my  youth,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ness. 

These  lines  were  given  a  prominent  place  in  the  columns  of  the 
New  York  Scotsmatiy  and  commanded  considerable  attention  from  the 
readers  of  that  paper.  In  1856  Mr.  Patterson  was  united  in  marriage 
to  Miss  Mary  Gertrude  Treanor,  an  amiable  and  intelligent  young  lady 
who  crowned  his  life  with  happiness  and  comfort  for  eighteen  years. 
She  died  in  1874,  leaving  him  with  a  family  of  six  children,  three  sons 
and  three  daughters.  How  deeply  he  mourned  her  loss  may  be  sur- 
mised from  the  tender  sentiments  expressed  in  his  poem,  "  Fireside 
Reflections,"  and  from  the  fact  that  he  has  remained  faithful  to  her 
memory  ever  since: 

FIRESIDE   REFLECTIONS. 


Hopes  are  crushed  and  hearts  are  breaking 

Every  day  and  every  hour; 
Prospects  blighted — joys  forsaking 

Those  who  knew  their  vital  power. 


1 80  SCOTTISH  POETS  W  AMERICA. 


Vacant  chairs  around  the  table — 
(Household  gravestones  grim  and  cold)— 

Tell  that  death  in  garments  sable, 
Entered  homes  that  bloomed  of  old, 

And  stole  away  the  sweetest  flower 

In  the  family  bouquet's  vase; 
Our  kind  Father's  priceless  dower — 

The  jewel  with  the  brightest  rays. 

Tones  familiar  hushed  forever; 

Form  beloved  absent  here; 
But  on  Mem'ry's  mirror  ever. 

Ever  present,  ever  near — 

Near  where  mildewed  hearts  are  sinking, 

Whisp'ring  words  of  hope  and  love: 
If  you'd  be  joys  eternal  drinking, 

Seek  them  only  from  above. 

Another  little  poem  composed  about  this  time  and  entitled  "To  a 
Dead  Pet  Canary  Bird,"  also  displays  the  tender  and  sympathetic 
feelings  possessed  by  our  author.  The  little  songster  had  been  for 
many  years  a  special  favorite  with  Mrs.  Patterson,  and  its  death 
awakened  many  sad  memories  in  the  grief-stricken  household: 

TO  A  DEAD  PET  CANARY  BIRD. 


Alas!  poor  thing. 

No  more  thou'lt  fling 
To  space  or  time  thy  notes  away; 

Thy  song,  so  sweet, 

Shall  never  greet 
Expectant  ears  the  livelong  day. 

When  I  was  sad, 

To  make  me  glad, 
(A  notion  wove  on  Fancy's  loom), 

Thy  siren  voice, 

With  trills  so  choice, 
Would  help  dispel  the  damp'ning  gloom. 

But  deeper  cause 

Than  sensual  laws 
Endear'd  to  me  that  form  of  thine; 

Thou  loved  that  one. 

Now  dead  and  gone, 
Whose  life  was  long  entwined  with  mine. 


JOHN  PATTERSON.  i8i 


Her  winning  words 

E'en  little  birds 
Could  never  hear  and  timid  be; 

No  covert  net 

Their  footsteps  met 
When  they  alighted  on  her  knee. 

Prompt  at  her  call 

Thou'd  forfeit  all 
The  comforts  of  thy  wire-bound  land; 

And  food  and  drink 

Seem'd  best,  I  think, 
To  thee  when  taken  from  her  hand. 

Alas!  alas! 

All  pleasures  pass, 
All  earthly  joys  must  have  an  end; 

On  Death's  long  scroll 

All  names  enroll; 
Man,  beast,  and  bird  all  there  are  penn'd. 

Each  of  our  author's  sons  now  occupies  a  position  of  trust  in  New 
York  city.  His  eldest  daughter,  Mary  Gertrude,  acts  as  housekeeper, 
while  the  second  one,  Isabella  Forbes,  being  a  graduate  of  the  Nor- 
mal College  of  the  class  of  1884,  is  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  public 
schools  of  this  city,  and  the  third  one,  Catherine,  having  a  particular 
taste  for  music,  has  acquired  considerable  success  as  a  teacher  of  the 
piano-forte.  Many  of  Mr.  Patterson's  musings  are  of  a  religious  char- 
acter and  prove  that  he  received  a  very  careful  religious  training  in 
his  youth.     As  a  specimen  of  these  pieces  we  quote: 

GOD  HELP  THE  POOR. 


God  help  the  poor!  when  sleet  and  snow 

Around  their  dwellings  fold 
Their  cheerless  garb,  and  rough  winds  blow 

Into  their  homes  so  cold. 

God  help  the  poorl  when  children  cry 

For  bread  and  there  is  none; 
Oh!  listen  to  their  hungry  sigh 

And  hear  their  feeble  moan. 

God  help  the  poor!  with  hunger  press'd, 
When  Want's  repeated  knocks 

The  bolted  door  of  the  wealth-caress'd 
With  haughty  silence  mocks. 


i82  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

God  help  the  poor!  whose  naked  feet 

Pursue  their  weary  tread 
Throughout  the  cold  and  dreary  street 

In  quest  of  daily  bread. 

God  help  the  poor  of  every  land, 

Of  every  sect  and  clime; 
Suppl}',  Lord,  with  Thy  loving  hand, 

Their  wants  from  time  to  time. 

God  help  the  poor!  for  Thou  art  kind, 

Th)'  love  doth  never  end; 
In  Thee,  oh  Lord,  they'll  always  find 

An  ever-faithful  friend. 

There  are  few  more  patriotic  American  citizens  than  our  present 
author,  and  yet  he  has  a  warm  heart  for  everything  pertaining  to  Scot- 
land. He  has  been  an  active  member  of  the  New  York  Caledonian 
Club  for  over  twenty  years,  and  in  addition  to  this  he  contributes 
occasional  letters  and  poems  to  the  home  papers,  thus  keeping  up  his 
connection  and  his  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  fatherland.  In  his 
poem  entitled  "  Dreaming,"  he  says: 

The  love  of  a  Scot  for  the  land  of  his  birth 

Is  not  like  a  skiff  that's  upset  by  a  squall; 
'Tis  like  the  stanch  ship  that  sails  'round  the  earth, 

And  sets  at  defiance  the  Storm  King's  thrall. 

'Tis  a  well-spring  of  joy  in  far-away  lands; 

A  bright  ray  of  hope  in  a  cycle  of  gloom; 
A  pyramid  firm  'mid  life's  shifting  sands; 

'Mong  affection's  green  leaves  a  rose-bush  in  bloom. 

"  Dreaming"  is  one  of  the  longest,  and,  in  our  opinion,  the  finest  of 
all  Mr.  Patterson's  productions.  Taken  altogether  it  is  an  excellent 
poem,  containing  numerous  fine  passages  and  many  pleasing  pictures 
of  home.  It  was  first  published  in  the  Netv  York  Scotsman,  and  is 
dedicated,  "  To  George  Gilluly,  Esq.,  President  of  the  Greenpoint 
(L.  I.)  Burns  Club,  a  townsman  and  school  fellow  of  the  author,  as  a 
token  and  manifestation  of  the  uniform  friendship  that  has  always 
existed  between  them." 

The  cruelties  inflicted  by  the  late  evictions  throughout  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland  have  not  escaped  the  notice  of  Mr.  Patterson.  "  I 
was  brought  up,"  he  writes,  "at  my  mother's  knee  to  believe  that  God 


JOHM  PATTERSON.  183 


was  just,  that  all  men  were  equal  in  His  sight,  and  that  He  made  the 
earth  for  the  children  of  men."  He  was  greatly  incensed  some  time 
since  on  reading  the  following  extract  from  a  lecture  on  the  "Leck- 
nielm  Evictions  "  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  McMillan,  Free  Church  minister 
of  Ullapool:  "To  strike  terror  into  their  hearts,  first  of  all  two 
houses  were  pulled  down,  I  might  say,  about  the  ears  of  their  respect- 
ive occupants,  without  any  warning  whatever,  except  one  of  the  short- 
est kind.  The  first  was  occupied  by  a  deaf  pauper  woman,  about 
middle  life,  living  alone  for  years  in  a  bothy  of  her  own,  apart  from 
the  other  houses  altogether.  *  *  *  Act  the  second  is  this:  Mrs. 
Campbell  was  a  widow  with  two  children.  After  the  decease  of  her 
husband  she  tried  to  support  herself  by  serving  in  families  as  a  serv- 
ant. *  *  *  She  returned  to  Leckmelm  in  failing  health.  Her 
father  had  died  since  she  left,  and  the  house  in  which  he  lived  and 
died,  and  in  which  in  all  likelihood  he  reared  his  family,  was  now  ten- 
antless.  Here  widow  Cam])bell  turned  aside  for  a  while,  until  some- 
thing else  would,  in  kind  providence,  turn  up.  But  the  inexorable  edi(  t 
had  gone  forth  to  erase  her  habitation  from  the  ground.  Her  house 
was  pulled  down  about  her  ears."  This  latter  incident  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  our  author's  most  touching  poems: 


WIDOW  CAMPBELL'S  APPEAL. 


Wild  cries  of  distress  from  the  Highlands  are  ringing 

In  the  ears  of  humanity,  plaintive  but  shrill; 
As  their  echoes  resound,  in  despair  they  arc  bringing 

To  the  warm  heart  of  manhood  a  blood-chilling  thrill. 
A  widow,  in  anguish,  her  dire  case  is  pleading — 

Her  weak  knees  impressing  the  frost-bitten  moss; 
But  no  look  of  pity,  he  listens,  unheeding — 

The  Laird  of  Leckmelm,  in  the  county  of  Ross. 

"To  let  me  remain  in  the  home  of  my  fathers, 

Is  all  that  I  ask  in  the  land  of  my  birih; 
And  I'll  save  from  the  pence  my  industry  gathers 

Enough  for  the  rental  you  think  it  is  worth. 
Then  change  your  decree,  and  I'll  bless  you  forever, 

And  your  kindness  for  aye  on  my  heart  will  engross — " 
Her  words  might  have  softened  his  blood-hound,  but  never 

The  Laird  of  Leckmelm,  in  the  county  of  Ross. 

"Look  there!"— to  the  churchyard  she  pointed  a  finger— 
"  It's  there  where  my  husband,  my  Donald,  is  laid, 


i84  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


And  oft,  while  the  shadows  of  evening  linger, 
There  mourning  I  sit  hy  his  grass-covered  bed. 

Oh,  then,  from  his  grave  cause  me  not  to  be  parted; 
To  be  near  him,  though  dead,  slightly  deadens  my  loss." 

All  who  heard  were  in  tears  but  that  stony-hearted 
Rich  Laird  of  Leckmelm,  in  the  county  of  Ross. 

"  Oh,  stop  for  a  minute!  there's  one  plea  remaining — 

If  that  is  unheeded,  no  more  will  I  say — 
My  children!  my  children! — my  courage  is  gaining — 

My  fatherless  children  you'll  not  drive  away. 
Your  features  bespeak  that  your  heart  has  relented; 

Oh,  thanks  be  to  Him  who  has  died  on  the  cross." 
"  My  fiat  is  published,  nor  have  I  repented," 

Hiss'd  the  Laird  of  Leckmelm,  in  the  county  of  Ross. 

As  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Patterson's  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
Doric  and  the  appropriate  manner  in  which  he  makes  use  of  it,  we 
quote  a  few  verses  from  his  "Auld  Rabbie  Hard:" 

There  lived  ae  man  in  oor  guid  toon 
Wham  I,  a  'cute,  auld-farrant  loon, 

Observit  weel, 
Whase  creed  an'  deed  were  wide  asunder. 
An'  are,  nae  doot,  'less  Death  did  hinder, 

Divergent  still. 

This  man  was  rich  in  warldly  good, 
An'  he  amang  his  cronies  stood 

In  estimation; 
For  base-born  churls  roun'  rich  folks  bum, 
As  bees  roun'  hawthorn  blossoms  hum, 

In  ev'ry  nation. 

Gie  me  the  frien'  that's  nae  amiss. 
When  Fortune  taks  her  fareweel  kiss 

An'  coorts  anither; 
That  frien'  to  me  will  aye  be  dear, 
Tho'  life's  wee  day  be  dark  or  clear. 

Aye  dear  as  brither. 

The  carl  was  ca'd  Auld  Rabbie  Hard, 
Which  was  nae  joke,  if  we  regard 

His  miser  habits; 
But  when  a  wean — years  lang  gane  hame — 
The  parson  to  him  gied  the  name — 

Robert  Grabbits. 


JOHN  PATTERSON.  185 

»  »  ■*  ♦ 

Wlicn  Rabbic  up  life's  brae  did  lair. 
An'  on  the  way  Iwal  iiiilestaiies  niair 

Had  left  behind, 
He  found  himsel'  a  thrifty  miller, 
Wi'  walie  pouches  fill'd  wi'  siller — 

An'  mair  to  grind. 

Siller,  siller,  was  a'  he  socht. 
An'  when  he  got  it,  a'  his  thocht 

Was  then  to  baud  it; 
His  hainin',  hairtless,  selfish  life, 
E'en  if  I  were  the  miser's  wife, 

I  couldna  laud  it. 

Robert  Waters,  Esq.,  Principal  of  the  West  Hoboken  public  school, 
writes:  "I  made  the  accpiaintance  of  Mr.  John  Patterson  while  I  was 
yet  a  lad  working,  like  himself,  at  'the  case  '  in  a  New  York  printing 
office,  and,  strange  enough  to  me,  he  has  remained  all  these  years  at 
the  same  business,  while  I  have  wandered  away  from  the  craft,  run- 
ning over  various  foreign  countries  and  striking  out  into  an  entirely 
different  sphere  of  life.  *  *  *  j  never  suspected  him  of  dabbling 
in  poetry  until  one  day,  while  visiting  him  at  his  house,  he  said  to  me, 
'  What  do  you  think  of  this?  here  are  some  rhymes  which  I  have  been 
stringing  together,'  and  he  read  to  me  a  poem  written  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  which  I  remember  as  strongly  reminding  me  of  Burns,  both  in 
manner  and  spirit,  and  which  was  so  good  that  it  at  once  gave  me  a 
higher  opinion  of  the  man.  The  poem  showed  me  that  he  had  some  tal- 
ent in  the  rhyming  line,  so  I  advised  him  to  study  and  try  to  bring  to 
bear  whatever  power  lay  in  him.  What  strikes  me  as  a  prominent 
trait  of  the  man  is  his  over  humble  estimate  of  his  own  abilities,  which 
is  the  reason  that  he  has  always  filled  so  humble  a  position  in  the 
world.  But  in  this  I  am  perhaps  wrong,  for  what  position  in  the  world 
is,  in  reality,  superior  to  that  of  an  American  workman  ?  *  *  But  if 
he  has  not  been  active  in  advancing  his  own  interests  he  has  not  been 
backward  in  furthering  those  of  others.  I  recollect  it  was  he  that 
first  set  me  agoing  in  a  literary  or  lecturing  way,  for  when  I  returned 
from  Europe  he  induced  me  to  give  an  account  of  my  wanderings  to 
the  Caledonians  in  the  New  York  Caledonian  club-house,  and  I  well 
remember  his  glee  and  kindly  greeting  after  my  half  successful  per- 
formance was  done.  John  Patterson  has  an  open  hand  and  a  waim 
heart  to  every  Scotsman  that  comes  in  his  way,  and  I  am  only  afraid 


1 36  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

that  his  generous  hospitality  and  brotherly  kindness  are  not  always 
appreciated  as  they  ought  to  be," 

Among  Mr.  Patterson's  published  poems  not  already  referred  to, 
"My  Native  Land,"  "Lines  on  First-footing  Mr.  Donald  Grant," 
"  Santa  Glaus,"  "The  Coming  Morrow"  and  "  Christmas  is  Coming," 
are  well  worthy  of  special  notice.  He  has  also  numerous  pieces  in 
manuscript,  and  we  trust  that  he  will  continue  to  exercise  his  talents 
until  he  produces  something  that  will  entitle  him  to  a  prominent  place 
among  modern  Scottish  poets. 


WILLIAM     TELFORD. 

As  wine,  that  with  its  own  wcif;ht  runs,  is  best. 
And  counted  niucii  more  noble  than  the  rest, 
So  is  the  poetry,  whose  generous  strains 
Flow  without  servile  study,  art  or  pains. 

Mr.  William  Telford,  a  respected  resident  for  many  years  of 
Smith,  Peterboro,  Ontario,  and  a  Scottish  poet  of  more  than  local 
fame,  was  born  at  Leithohn,  Berwickshire,  Scotland,  on  the  sixth  of 
January,  1828.  He  was  sent  to  school  in  his  seventh  year,  but  on 
account  of  a  long  and  serious  illness  which  prostrated  his  father  and 
left  him  incapable  of  providing  for  his  family  as  he  had  hitherto  done, 
he  was  compelled  to  quit  his  studies  at  the  age  of  ten,  and  join  his 
brothers  at  work  digging  drains,  we  are  told  in  winter,  and  rendering 
whatever  assistance  he  could  in  a  brick  and  tile  yard  in  summer. 
"  But  the  severe  labor  he  was  forced  to  perform,"  writes  his  biogra- 
pher, "  did  not  crush  out  his  inspirations  for  mental  improvement. 
He  rose  superior  lo  his  prosaic  environments,  and  the  words  of  the 
poet  Gray,  applied  to  genius,  extinguished  in  undevelopment,  could 
not  be  applied  to  him: 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul! 

He  triumphed  over  conditions  which  would  have  brought  discour- 
agement, or  plodding  content,  with  ignorance,  to  a  less  aspiring  soul. 
Day  after  day,  in  the  rare  intermissions  of  arduous  toil,  he  strove, 
though  but  a  child,  with  the  energy  and  determination  of  a  man,  to 
improve  his  mental  condition.  He  had  neither  books  nor  means  to 
procure  them,  and  he  had  consequently  to  rely  on  the  kindness  of 
neighbors,  who  syinpathised  with  his  aspirations,  and  the  scanty  sup- 
ply of  books  their  cottage  shelves  contained,  and  in  the  long  winter 
evenings  he  was  to  be  seen  sitting  in  the  ingle-nook  of  his  mother's 
cottage  poring  over  some  old  volume.  In  prose,  the  books  to  which 
he   had  access  were   such  works   as    Bunyan's  *  Pilgrim's    Progress,' 


IS8  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


Baxter's  'Saint's  Rest,'  'Man's  Four-fold  Estate,'  '  Josephus'  His- 
tory,' 'Hervey's  Meditations,'  'Afflicted  Man's  Companion,'  and 
such  works— one  would  think,  the  least  alluring  in  their  ponderous 
sanctity  to  the  lively  temperament  of  youth.  In  poetry.  Burns  was 
his  chief  delight,  although  Pope,  Moore,  Montgomery,  Tannahill,  and 
other  poets  were  conned  by  him  with  diligent  delight.  In  his  younger 
years  the  knowledge  of  grammar  was  to  him  as  a  sealed  book,  and 
the  first  dictionary  he  bought  was  for  the  use  of  his  eldest  son  in 
school."  In  1850  Mr.  Telford  emigrated  to  Canada,  and  has  followed 
bucolic  pursuits  with  marked  success  ever  since.  During  these  many 
years,  however,  he  has  found  constant  enjoyment  in  the  companionship 
of  the  muse.  He  has  wooed  her  at  all  times  and  under  all  circum- 
stances, although  he  says  that  he  never  lost  one  hour's  work  with 
poetry.  When  a  poetic  idea  came  to  him  in  the  day  time,  he  brooded 
over  and  cherished  it  until  the  evening  meal  was  past,  when  he  would 
sit  down  and  endeavor  to  weave  it  into  a  poem.  A  few  months  ago 
he  collected  his  pieces  together  and  published  them  in  a  large  8vo  vol- 
ume.  Nearly  one  thousand  copies  of  this  book  have  already  been 
sold,  showing  conclusively  that  the  author  has  a  large  circle  of  friends 
and  readers  who  appreciate  his  talents  and  worth.  Mr.  Telford  intro- 
duces himself  to  his  patrons  in  the  beginning  of  the  volume  thus: 

Look  not  for  language,  lofty  or  refined, 

Within  this  book,  you  no  such  thing  will  find; 

I  never  stood  in  high  school  class  or  college, 

God,  books  and  nature,  true  sources  of  my  knowledge 

If  high  your  learning,  kindly  condescend — 

Some  pity  show  to  your  less  learned  friend; 

Your  high  attainments,  use  not  to  deride, 

While  criticising  lean  to  mercy's  side. 

Education  is  seldom  obtained  by  stealth, 
Learning  requires  no  small  amount  of  wealth. 
My  humble  parents  wished  and  nobly  tried, 
To  give  to  me  what  poverty  denied. 
Many  bright  gems  lies  buried  in  the  dust, 
Many  heaven-sent  gifts  for  lack  of  learning  rust; 
Many  golden  talents  lie  in  heads  obscure, 
Because  the  parents  and  the  sons  were  poor. 

Following  these  lines  are  numerous  gems  of  poetry  and  song,  both 
in  the  English  and    in  the  author's  mother  tongue,  and   of  which    he 


WILLIAM    TELFORD.  i8q 


may  justly  feel  proud.  Tlicse  are  replete  with  beautiful  ideas  and 
suggestions  and  they  embrace  a  large  variety  of  subjects,  both  (  oin- 
monplace  and  otherwise.  'I'ake  the  following  as  a  specimen  of  his 
serious  writings.  Tht"  thoughts  embodied  in  the  poem  flashed  through 
his  mind  one  day  while  he  was  engaged  in  sowing  grain  in  one  of  his 
fields: 

I  AM  SOWING. 


I  am  sowing,  will  I  reap  it? 

That  is  more  than  I  can  say, 
Before  these  seeds  can  germinate 

I  may  have  passed  away. 

I  linow  my  life  is  fleeting  fast, 
Those  hands  with  which  I  sow 

May  both  be  clasped  in  Death's  embrace 
Ere  the  first  green  blade  grow. 

I  am  scattering,  who  will  gather? 

'Tis  a  mystery  dark  to  me; 
Long  before  the  full  ear  openelh 

In  the  cold  grave  I  may'be. 

As  I  watch  the  small  seed  falling 

Upon  the  fruitful  ground, 
Ah,  alas!  while  they  are  growing 

I  may  sleep  beneath  the  mound. 

I  am  sowing,  yes,  and  trusting, 
But  my  hopes  may  all  be  vain; 

Perhaps  my  hands  will  never  bear 
The  sheaves  of  golden  grain. 

I  may  sow,  another  reap  it, 
'Tis  the  common  fate  of  man; 

Death  regards  no  times  nor  seasons, 
But  destroys  each  hope  and  plan. 

It  is  seed-time  now,  when  harvest  comes 

Will  I  be  there  to  reap  ? 
Or  will  death,  that  dreaded  reaper 

Close  my  eyes  in  their  last  sleep  ? 

Will  I  reap?     No  man  can  answer. 

It  is  God  alone  that  knows; 
Mysterious  all  His  ways  and  He 

Doth  none  to  man  disclose. 


igo  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN'  AMERICA. 

But  there  was  a  greater  seed-time, 

And  we  are  the  seeds  then  sown; 
By  God's  own  hand  we  sprang  to  life, 

Sustained,  perserved  and  grown. 

There  will  be  as  great  a  harvest, 

We  must  all  be  present  then; 
When  His  angels  will  be  reapers, 

And  the  grain  the  soills  of  men. 

Many  of  Mr.  Telford's  finest  productions  have  been  inspired  by 
the  love  which  he  possesses  for  the  beauties  of  nature.  Indeed  this 
may  be  said  to  be  a  special  characteristic  of  his  muse  as  it  asserts 
itself  more  or  less  in  all  of  his  writings.  In  addition  to  this  his 
descriptive  powers  are  remarkably  keen.  Among  the  poems  in  which 
those  two  qualities  blend  harmoniously  together,  and  which  we  have 
read  with  sincere  pleasure  and  prolit,  are  ''  The  Fall  of  the  Leaf," 
"An  Address  to  Spring,"  "The  Scenery  of  Scotland,"  "The  First 
Day  of  April,"  "  'I'he  Pioneer's  Retrospect"  and  "  Thoughts  on  the 
Season  ot  Death."     We  quote  a  few  stanzas  from  the  latter  piece:     • 

I  would  not  die  in  Autumn,  with  all  summer  beauties  past, 
Faded  foliage,  leatless  branches,  swaying  with  the  northern  blast, 
Hoar  frost  shining,  chilling  breezes,  drizzling  rain  and  blinding  sleet, 
Frost-nipped  herbage,  leaves  of  yellow,  crisping  underneath  our  feet, 
Gloomy  season,  bright  sun  clouded,  every  leaf  stript  from  the  tree, 
Herb  and  plant,  brignt  tiowers  of  summer,  1  don't  wish  to  die  with  thee. 
Some  that  loved  me  might  feel  anxious  to  strew  garlands  o'er  their  dead, 
Alas!  they  find  but  withered  tiowers  wherewith  to  grace  my  coffin  lid. 

Die  in  Winter!  surely  never!  how  I  shudder  at  the  thought. 

Shall  my  life's  decisive  battle  in  the  winter  time  be  fought? 

Not  one  glimpse  of  summer's  beauty,  not  one  beam  of  sunlit  ray 

Sent  to  cheer  my  spirit  as  it  leaves  its  prison-house  of  clay. 

As  from  the  hearse  to  open  grave  move  my  pall -bearers  sad  and  slow 

In  silence  bear  my  lifeless  body  over  wreaths  of  drifted  snow. 

Death  brings  its  terror  at  all  times — in  winter  it  adds  gloom. 

To  sleep  the  first  night's  sleep  of  death  beneath  a  snow-clad  tomb. 

If  I  possessed  the  keys  of  death  I  would  not  die  in  Spring, 
When  nature  bursts  its  wintery  bonds  and  birds  begin  to  sing, 
The  ice-bound  lake  begins  to  wave,  the  frozen  streams  to  flow, 
Tlie  radiant  beams  of  April  sun,  the  balmy  breezes  blow, 
With  bud  and  blossom,  early  llowers,  burst  forth  to  life  anew, 
The  snow-drop  white,  the  violet,  shows  its  variegated  hue; 
Cut  me  not  down,  'mid  fresh  bloomed  llowers  permit  me  just  to  stay. 
To  gaze  upon  their  richest  bloom  before  I  pass  away. 


WILLIAM    TELFORD.  191 


Oh,  Tliou  lliat  riiltth  life  and  death,  supreme  on  earth  and  sky, 
Oh,  grant  to  mc  my  earnest  wish,  in  Summer  let  me  die. 
Amidst  all  beauty  earth  aflbrds,  each  field  and  forest  ^reen; 
Nature  in  dazzling  splendor,  robed  to  brighten  up  death's  scene; 
Push  wide  my  bedroom  door  ajar,  raise  up  the  windows  high, 
Let  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  flowers  blow  o'er  me  as  I  die; 
They  tell  me  there  are  flowers  above,  fade  not  with  heat  or  cold, 
Then  let  me  gaze  on  those  below  till  brighter  I  behold. 

Another  portion  of  our  autlior's  numerous  writings  relate  to  Scot- 
land, or  are  in  connection  with  Scottish  subjects,  such  as  the  anniver- 
sary of  Robert  Burns,  St.  Andrew's  Night,  addresses  to  the  Sons  of 
Scotia,  the  members  of  the  Peterborough,  St.  Andrew's  Society,  etc. 
Many  of  these  are  strikingly  patriotic  in  their  expression,  while  others 
are  overflowing  with  love  and  admiration  for  the  old  land.  "A  Nicht 
Like  Hame,"  "  Grand  Here  to  Gather,"  "  Auld  Scotia  as  It  was  and 
is,"  "  Help  Your  Brither  Scot"  and  "The  Land  o'  Cakes,"  are  all 
noble  poems  in  this  respect.  The  following  piece  may  be  taken  as  a 
specimen.  It  was  inspired  by  a  present  of  a  small  bunch  of  heather 
from  his  friend,  Mr.  John  Cameron,  and  is  one  of  the  shortest  of  his 
compositions: 


SCOTIA'S  HEATHER. 


Yes  he  brought  it.     I  have  got  it, 
Can  you  guess  what  it  might  be? 

It's  the' heather  John  did  gather 
On  Auld  Scotia's  hills  for  me. 

First  he  pu'ed  it,  then  he  viewed  it. 
With  its  blossoms'  varied  hue, 

Paper  folded,  therein  rolled  it, 
Saying,  "  Bill,  this  is  for  you." 

When  I  took  it,  how  I  lookel 
At  the  sprig  I  so  well  knew, 

Silent  blessed  it,  almost  kissed  it. 
For  the  sake  of  where  it  grew. 

When  I  showed  it,  yes,  they  knew  it, 
Every  Scotchman  which  I  met; 

Fast  they  held  it  and  they  smelled  it, 
O,  its  scent  they  won't  forget. 

Wc  adore  it,  true  Scots  wore  it. 
In  their  Highland  caps  of  yore 

Their  foes  feared  it,  as  they  nearcd  it. 
Highland  blood  the  heather  bore. 


192  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

Time  has  tried  it,  blood  has  dyed  it, 

Yes  the  best  in  Scotland  shed, 
They  prayed  on  it,  and  laid  on  it, 

Oft  the  martyr's  dying  bed. 

You  may  prize  it,  or  despise  it 

As  your  inclination  be 
Don't  annoy  it  or  destroy  it, 

'Tis  a  precious  gem  to  me. 

Yes,  I  have  it,  I  will  save  it 

While  its  twigs  will  hang  thegithcr 
Time  will  move  them,  but  I  love  them. 

Both  Auld  Scotia  and  her  heather. 

Conspicuous  among  Mr.  Telford's  longer  poems  are  the  following: 
"Don't  Mortgage  Your  Farm,"  "A  Poor  Scholar;  or,  My  Own  Diffi- 
culties," "  The  Age  of  Sham,"  "  A  True  Husband's  Wish,"  "A  Voice 
From  Behind  the  Plough;"  his  various  epistles  to  the  late  Mr.  David 
Kennedy,  the  Scottish  vocalist,  and  his  two  very  excellent  poems  on 
the  late  President  Garfield.  These  poems  exhibit  considerable  origi- 
nality and  power.  They  are  not  encumbered  with  any  useless  or 
unnecessary  lines,  and  the  language  used  is  at  all  times  select  and 
appropriate.  Take  a  few  verses  from  one  of  the  last-named  poems 
for  instance: 

Endowed  with  talents  bright  and  numerous  too, 
Rapid  expanding  as  in  years  he  grew. 
His  3'oulhful  soul  sought  not  an  empty  name, 
Increase  of  knowledge  was  his  greatest  aim. 

His  plans  and^hopes  oft  left  him  in  despair, 
His  means  were  scarce,  he  little  wealth  did  share, 
Bravely  he  struggled  up  life's  adverse  road 
Till  every  barrier  underneath  he  trod. 

As  wild  waves  wash  the  pebbles  to  the  beach, 
What  he  had  learned  he  stood  prepared  to  teach, 
Not  to  gain  honor  nor  to  hoard  up  pelf. 
But  earn  an  honest  living  for  himself. 

But  soon  the  teacher's  rod  he  laid  aside, 

And  grasped  the  sword  to  hold  his  country's  pride; 

His  daring  bravery,  in  command  displayed, 

A  Majoi-Ccneral  he  was  promptly  made. 


WILLIAM    TELFORD.  193 


Onward  he  pressed  with  persevering  tread, 
Till  earth's  highest  honors  graced  his  noble  head: 
Esteem  and  favor,  gained  on  every  hand, 
Placed  him  head  ruler  o'er  his  native  land. 

*  »  »  ♦ 

The  land  he  ruled  is  draped  in  mourning  o'er 
And  great  men  wept  that  seldom  wejjt  before, 
Their  grief  is  light,  though  tears  bedim  their  eyes, 
Compared  with  those  bound  by  endearing  ties. 

*  *  *  # 

Son,  husband,  father,  ruler  is  no  more. 

His  honored  name  shines  brighter  than  before; 

The  name  of  Garfield  and  his  tragic  end 

To  men  unborn,  in  history  will  descend. 

The  few  specimens  of  Mr.  Telford's  muse  which  we  have  here  pre- 
sented to  our  readers  are  sufficient,  we  think,  to  prove  that  he  is 
endowed  with  poetic  gifts  of  a  very  high  order.  When  we  consider 
the  disadvantages  which  he  has  had  to  contend  with,  chiefly  arising 
from  a  deficient  education,  the  many  years  of  incessant  and  laborious 
toil  through  which  he  has  passed;  the  trials,  privations  and  griefs 
which  have  fallen  to  his  lot,  especially  in  the  early  years  of  his  life  ; 
when  we  consider  these  facts  we  cannot  but  wonder  that  he  has  had 
the  inclination,  or  found  the  opportunity,  to  compose  so  many  beau- 
tiful and  meritorious  poems  as  he  has  done.  His  life  from  boyhood 
has  certainly  been  a  busy  and  eventful  one,  but  he  has  conquered  all 
obstacles  and  is  now  in  more  than  comfortable  circumstances.  While 
we  have  not  touched,  to  any  extent,  on  his  religious  musings,  the  few 
pieces  of  this  nature  which  we  have  perused  prove  him  to  be  a  sin- 
cerely religious  man  and  his  writings  altogether  give  evidence  that  he 
has  always  made  the  noblest  use  of  the  talents  created  in  him. 


JAMES    D.    CRICHTON. 

He  does  alot  for  every  exercise 

A  several  hour;  for  sloth,  the  nurse  of  vices, 

And  rust  of  action  is  a  stranger  to  him. 

The  stamp  of  true  poetry  is  imprinted  on  many  of  the  poetical  pro- 
ductions of  James  D.  Crichton,  the  present  Assistant  Librarian  of  the 
Brooklyn  Library.  A  man  inheriting  literary  tastes  and  talents  from 
each  of  his  parents,  possessing  a  classical  education,  besides  being 
endowed  with  fine  intellectual  qualities  which  manifest  themselves  in 
all  of  his  writings,  he  certainly  gives  promise  of  occupying  in  the  near 
future  a  conspicuous  place  among  the  lights  of  the  literary  world. 
His  muse,  which  is  vigorous  and  scholarly,  never  becomes  fascinated 
with  trivial  subjects.  When  she  casts  her  spell  over  him  she  inspires 
him  with  nobler  ideas  on  noble  themes,  and  he  sings  in  obedience  to 
her  command  in  a  lofty  strain,  and  in  language  which  is  at  once  poetic 
and  choice  and  clear.  A  fair  specimen  of  his  poetry  may  be  found 
in  his  poem  entitled  "Longfellow,"  written  in  1875: 

LONGFELLOW. 


True  poet  thou!  No  defter  hand 

Hath  swept  the  lyre  since  time  begun, 
Poet  and  preacher  both  in  one; 

With  Jovc-like  front,  serene  and  grand 

Tiiou  towerest  o'er  the  puny  throng. 
The  petty  singers  of  our  day; 
And  not  a  heart  but  owns  thy  sway 

That  listens  to  thy  witching  song. 

Not  thine  that  false  and  slavish  creed; 

The  utterance  of  a  selfish  heart; 

Which  bids  the  poet  take  no  part 
To  stem  the  march  of  worldly  greed, 
Which  bids  the  poet  hold  his  tongue 


JAMES  D.  CRICIITON.  I95 

Or  only  sing  of  trivial  themes, 

Of  idle  fancies,  sensuous  dreams. 
Or  twist  the  rij^ht  to  seem  the  wrong; 
Which  bids  iiim  sell  fur  man's  api)lause 

His  birthright  of  divine  protest, 

Against  all  ills  that  stand  confess'd 
In  the  clear  light  of  God's  pure  laws; 
Which  bids  him  bend  to  shams  his  knee, 

And  give  for  jewels  painted  glass, 

And  with  unruffled  features  pass 
A  brother  man  in  misery; 
Such  soulless  creed  thou  dost  despise, 

Thou  dost  not  closa  thy  loving  heart 

To  human  woe,  or  sit  apart 
Lull'd  in  an  "  earthy  paradise." 

But  like  the  old  Miltonic  psalm 

Still  echoing  down  the  aisles  of  time 

Thy  teachings,  simple  yet  sublime, 
Hush  the  heart's  murmur  into  calm. 
The  charm  of  truth  is  in  thy  verse, 

Of  purpose  strong  and  firm  and  high — 

Like  finger  pointing  to  the  sky — 
And  oft  thou  lovest  to  rehearse 
That  man  lives  not  for  self  alone. 

And  that  life  is  not  lived  again. 

And  biddest  us  forget  the  pain 
Nor  for  the  past  make  idle  moan; 
So  shall  we  rise  on  wings  of  love 

Giving  our  best  to  God  and  man, 

So  shall  we  pass  thro'  life's  brief  span, 
And  servants  here,  be  sons  above. 

Mr.  Crichton  was  born  at  Edinburgh  on  the  twenty-second  of  Jan- 
uary, 1847.  His  father,  Andrew  Crichton,  was  a  younger  son  of  a 
landed  proprietor  in  Nithsdale.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  walked  to 
Edinburgh,  entered  himself  as  a  student  at  the  university  there,  and 
never  cost  his  father  a  penny  afterwards.  Educated  for  the  ministry, 
he  (piickly  perceived  that  in  those  days  of  patronage  preferment  was 
slow  and  uncertain.  He  therefore  wisely  turned  his  attention  to  jour- 
nalism, contributed  to  the  various  magazines  of  the  day,  became 
editor  of  the  Edinlmrgh  Advertiser,  and  afterwards  of  the  Edinburgh 
Evening  Post.  He  was  also  the  author  of  numerous  works  (about 
forty  in  all),  biographical  and  historical— his  histories  of   Arabia  and 


196  SCOTTISH  POEtS  IN  AMERICA. 

Scandinavia,  publislied  in  Constable's  Miscellany,  are  still  standard — 
and  in  recognition  of  his  literary  merits  he  received  the  degree  of 
LL.  D.  from  the  University  of  St.  Andrew's.  He  died  in  1855,  when 
our  author  was  only  eight  years  of  age. 

Mr.  Crichton's  mother  was  Jane  Gordon,  youngest  daughter  of  the 
Rev.  John  Duguid,  Parish  Minister  of  .  Evie  and  Kendall,  Orkney. 
Accomplished  in  classical  literature,  modern  languages  and  mathemat- 
ical lore,  she  was,  he  informs  us,  his  earliest  and  best  teacher;  and  to 
her  he  is  indebted  for  a  love  of  nature  and  a  knowledge  of  botany 
which  even  yet  makes  the  most  solitary  rambles  both  attractive  and 
instructive.  He  was  educated  at  the  Queen's  Street  (Edinburgh) 
Institute,  and  when  fourteen  years  of  age  passed  to  the  Edinburgh 
University.  At  that  time  it  was  intended  that  he  should  take  out  a 
few  classes  preparatory  to  beginning  the  study  of  medicine.  But  the 
loss  of  the  little  means  which  the  family  possessed,  by  a  bank  failure, 
put  an  end  to  this  scheme,  and  forced  him  to  find  employment,  and 
make  a  living  for  himself.  His  college  course  was  thus  interrupted 
and  finally  broken  off,  as  he  was  often  absent  in  different  parts  of 
Scotland,  and  even  in  Ireland,  fulfilling  engagements  as  a  teacher. 
Whatever  spare  time  he  could  afford  was  devoted  to  study  and  striving 
to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  modern  languages,  so  that  he  might  be 
enabled  to  enjoy  the  master-pieces  of  foreign  literature  in  their  own 
tongues.  In  Edinburgh  he  latterly  formed  a  good  teaching  connection 
and  was  engaged  in  preparing  pupils  for  the  public  schools.  On  the 
death  of  his  mother,  in  1873,  he  went  to  London,  where  he  was 
employed  for  some  years  in  private  tuition.  He  was  also  engaged  by 
Dr.  Charles  Rogers,  the  Secretary  and  founder  of  the  Royal  Historical 
Society,  to  prepare  indexes  of  the  Society's  publications  and  to  assist 
him  in  the  translation  of  Latin  charters.  He  also  prepared  the  first 
catalogue  of  the  Society's  library.  For  these  valuable  services  he  was 
admitted  in  1879  a  fellow  of  the  Society.  After  a  year's  experience 
fn  the  bookselling  establishment  of  the  Messrs.  Sotheran  &  Co.,  he 
left  England,  and,  with  his  wife  and  child,  came  to  America.  Here 
he  was  first  employed  at  the  Brooklyn  Library  specially  to  compile  a 
catalogue  of  the  German  works.  After  the  death  of  Mr.  Noycs,  the 
late  Librarian,  he  was  appointed  Assistant  Librarian,  a  position  which 
he  still  worthily  fills.  As  to  his  poetry  he  says  that  he  has  always  had 
a  taste  that  way  inherited  from  his  mother,  who  sung  in  a  sweet  and 
facile  manner.     Many  of  his  musings  contain  both  original  and  peculiar 


James  d.  ck/chto^.  tg? 


ideas,  and  remind  us  very    forcibly  of  the  writings  of  the  late   gifted 
Alexander  Smith.     'I'ake  "  The  (larden  of  the  Muses,"  for  instance: 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  MUSES. 


I  was  in  Elfinland  last  night, 
H  there  be  any  truth  in  dreams; 

The  air  was  full  of  sunny  light 
And  music  of  a  thousand  streams, 

I  saw  the  muse's  garden  fair. 

Where  poets  are  for  plants  set  round; 

My  wand'ring  footsteps  halted  there, 
Such  glaniourie  my  senses  bound. 

There  Shakespeare  towers,  an  aloe  sweet. 
That  bloom'd  but  once  on  stately  stem; 

Dante  and  Homer,  compeers  meet. 
Toss  high  their  laurel'd  diadem. 

Dan  Chaucer,  as  the  ivy,  twines 

Around  the  pedestal  of  time; 
And  northern  bards  like  northern  pines 

Rear  stems  carv'd  o'er  with  lunic  rhyme. 

A  tuft  of  wormwood  stands  for  Pope 
(Forgive  vex'd  shade,  th'  irreverent  fun). 

And  Milton  as  a  heliotrope 

Turns  blue  eyes  open'd  to  the  sun! 

There  Byron  burns  a  passion-flower. 
And  Spenser  is  a  pensive  pansy; 

Keats  morning-glory  lasts  one  hour. 
Grave  Herbert  is  a  bunch  of  tansy. 

There  Shelley  blooms  without  a  stain, 

A  lily  by  a  crystal  brook, 
Hemans  and  Landon,  violets  twain. 

Cower  modestly  in  mossy  nook. 

And  Wordsworth  as  the  woodbine  creeps. 
And  Lamb  is  hyssop  for  fair  dames, 

Hogg  as  a  mountain-daisy  peeps, 
Swinburne  a  tiger-lily  flames! 

But  King  of  all  the  garden  there, 
See  Burns  o'ertop  the  flowery  throng. 

And  scatter  fragrance  on  the  air, 
The  red  red  rose  of  Scottish  song. 


igS  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


"  Burns'  Poems,"  it  may  here  be  remarked,  was  one  of  the  first  books 
placed  in  our  author's  hands  as  soon  as  he  had  learned  to  read.  They 
of  course  charmed  and  delighted  him,  and  many  of  the  finest  poems 
and  songs  were  committed  to  memory,  Ramsay,  Scott,  Hogg,  Lady 
Nairne  and  Tannahill  were  also  read  and  studied  in  many  a  ramble 
around  the  neighborhood  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  beauties  embodied 
in  their  compositions  became  indelibly  imprinted  on  his  mind.  He 
thus — unconsciously  perhaps — drank  in  a  love  for  his  mother  'tongue 
which  has  never  left  him,  and  which  he  makes  excellent  use  of  in  many 
of  his  poems.  As  a  specimen  of  these  Scottish  musings  we  quote  the 
following  : 

SONG— THE  EMIGRANT  SHEPHERD'S  LAMENT. 


O  gie  me  back  my  lowland  cot, 
My  shepherd's  plaid  and  lowly  lot, 
When  ower  the  hills  I  used  to  stray 
And  herd  the  sheep  the  lee-lang  day. 

Wi'  Hector  rinnin'  at  my  heel 

Nae  king  on  earth  could  happier  feel, 

My  sceptre  but  a  hazel  wand, 

My  kingdom  but  a  strip  o'  land. 

Whiles  in  my  dreams  I  see  the  loch, 
The  steadin'  wi'  its  boor-tree  haugh, 
The  auld  gray  hills  like  shrouded  ghosts 
O'  giant  and  lang  buried  hosts! 

How  sweet  at  morn  to  see  the  mist 
Roll  air  the  peaks  the  sunlight  kiss'd. 
How  saft  at  eve  the  dew-draps  fell 
When  Mary  met  me  in  the  dell! 

Wae's  me  that  fate  us  twa  has  twined, 
And  I  sair'  strangers  ower  the  sea; 
Their  hearts  are  leal.,  their  words  are  kind. 
But  lass,  it  is'na  hame  to  me! 

Quite  a  large  number  of  Mr.  Crichton's  poems  are  written  in  a  soft, 
melodious  measure,  which  certainly  adds  considerably  to  their  merit. 
Especially  is  this  the  case  with  such  pieces  as  have  been  inspired  by 
the  love  of  nature  with  which  he  is  imbued.  A  good  example  of  this 
(luality  may  be  found  in  his  poem  entitled 


JAMES  D.   CRICIirON.  i^q 


SUMMER. 

Summer  is  coming  to  forest  and  fell, 

To  river  and  mountain,  to  thorpe  and  lea; 
The  leaves  are  green  in  the  woodland  dell, 

There's  a  glitter  of  gold  on  the  sunlit  sea; 
Nature  thrills  to  the  fairy  spell, 

Hark  to  the  bee,  with  its  joyous  hum 
And  the  gladsome  songs  of  the  birds  that  tell 

Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  come! 

Summer  is  coming  with  bud  and  with  bloom 

To  chase  from  the  earth  cold  winter's  gloom 
For  though  the  promise  of  spring  be  fair, 

The  chill  touch  of  winter  lingers  there. 
Summer  is  coming,  her  warm  breath  glows. 

The  snow  drop  yields  to  the  blushing  rose, 
There's  a  quicker  pulse  in  the  dancing  rill 

And  a  brighter  green  on  the  sun-kiss'd  hill! 

Summer  is  coming,  the  children  play 

In  the  grassy  meadows  the  livelong  day; 
They  gather  the  gowans  and  pansies  fair, 

For  a  rustic  posy  to  deck  their  hair. 
And  the  speckled  trout  from  the  waters  deep 

Pursues  the  fly  with  a  bolder  leap; 
And  the  voices  of  Nature  long  hush'd  and  dumb 

Proclaim  in  their  chorus,  summer  is  come! 

Among  our  author's  finest  productions  not  already  noticed  are 
"The  Death  of  Evremonde,"  "  Roslin,"  "Auld  Fir  Tree,"  "Only  a 
Faded  Flower,"  "  Power  of  Love,"  "  Dreams  "  and  "  Man."  These 
are  all  poems  of  a  superior  caste  and  entitle  him  to  a  prominent  place 
among  modern  Scottish  poets.  The  last  named  poem  consists  of 
ninety-six  lines,  and  is  a  very  creditable  piece  of  work  in  all  respects. 
We  quote  a  few  lines  : 

Say  then,  why  was  I  born. 
If  that  there  be  no  morn, 
No  waking  of  the  dead. 
No  life  when  this  life's  lied. 
No  light  behind  the  gloom. 
No  sound  beyond  the  tomb  ? 
It  cannot  be  that  man 
Should  live  his  little  span 


200  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

And  all  his  joys  and  tears 
And  all  the  hopes  and  fears 
Into  his  life  that  press 
Should  end  in  nothingness! 
That  man  divinely  plann'd 
The  work  of  God's  own  hand — 
Should  perish  like  the  brute, 
And  lie  quiescent,  mute, 
Returned  to  kindred  earth 
From  which  he  took  his  birth. 

Apart  from  his  original  compositions  Mr.  Crichton  deserves  special 
credit  for  the  numerous  excellent  translations  which  he  has  made  from 
time  to  time.  These  include  Greek,  Latin,  French,  Spanish,  Italian, 
Norwegian,  Danish,  Swedish  and  German  master-pieces.  Many  of 
them  are  of  considerable  length,  and  were  they  published  together  in 
book  form  they  would  make  a  volume  which  couM  not  fail  to  be  both 
interesting  and  valuable  to  the  lovers  of  poetical  literature.  "Versifi- 
cation," he  writes,  "has  been  to  me  a  solace  in  times  of  care  and 
anxiety.  I  do  not  claim  any  merit  for  my  own  compositions,  but  in 
translations  I  have  always  tried  to  preserve  the  metre  and  give  the 
spirit,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  the  actual  phraseology  of  the  original." 
In  our  opinion  the  finest  of  all  his  work  in  this  direction  is  his  trans- 
lation of  "  Lenore,"  from  the  German  of  G.  Burger,  This  piece  con- 
sists of  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  lines  and  is  undoubtedly  the  best 
translation  ever  attempted  of  this  celebrated  poem.  We  quote  one  of 
his  shortest  translations,  to  enable  our  readers  to  judge  of  his  ability 
for  this  particular  kind  of  work: 

CUPID'S  VISIT. 

GREEK   OF   ANACREON. 

In  the  lonely  hours  of  midnight, 
Wiien  the  Bear  was  fast  declining 
To  the  right  hand  of  the  Herdsman, 
And  the  many  tribes  of  mankind. 
Wearied  out  with  toil,  lay  sleeping, 
Eros  came,  and,  standing  outside. 
Tapped  upon  the  bolted  door. 

"  Who  is  there,"  I  cried,  "that  knockcth, 
Breaking  in  upon  my  dreaming?" 
And  Love  only  answered,  "Open — 


JAMES  D.  CRICIITON.  201 


I  am  but  a  child,  so  fear  not, 

Wet  and  weary,  I  am  forcfed 

Through  the  moonless  night  to  wander." 

Hearing  this  I  took  compassion, 
And  uprising,  straightway  opened, 
Lamp  in  hand,  the  door.      Heforc  nic 
Stood  a  little  winged  urchin, 
With  a  tiny  bow  and  quiver. 

Quick  beside  the  hearth  I  set  him, 
And  he  chafed  his  palms  together, 
Wringing  from  his  locks  dank  moisture. 
But,  where'er  the  cold  was  banished, 
"  Come,"  quoth  he,  "and  let  us  find  out 
If  the  wet  hath  hurt  my  bowstring." 

Saying  this  the  bow  he  bendeth, 
And  within  my  heart  his  arrow 
Like  a  gadtly  sharply  stingeth. 
Then,  with  laughter  loud  uplcaping, 
"  Friend,"  said  he,  "congratulate  me. 
For  the  bow  is  all  uninjured. 
But  thy  heart  keen  pain  must  suffer." 

Mr.  Crichton  enjoys  the  friendship  of  many  eminent  men  of  letters. 
Prominent  among  these  is  the  venerable  Scottish  poet  and  song-writer, 
Mr.  Thomas  C.  Latto.  To  this  gentleman  the  writer  is  indebted  for 
many  of  the  biographical  facts  herein  stated  ;  also  for  his  being  the 
first  to  point  out  to  him  the  valuable  character  and  the  numerous 
beauties  which  adorn  the  writings  of  our  present  author. 


DONALD     RAMSAY. 

For  his  chaste  muse,  employed  by  heaven-taught  lyre, 
None  but  the  noblest  passions  to  inspire; 
Not  one  immoral,  one  corrupted  thought, 
One  line  which,  dying,  he  could  wish  to  blot. 

Mr.  Donald  Ramsay  is  a  notable  example  of  the  many  Scotsmen 
who  have  risen  from  the  ranks  through  their  intelligence  and  perse- 
verance, and  now  occupy  prominent  and  important  positions  in  the 
United  States.  He  is  a  native  of  Glasgow,  having  been  born  there 
on  March  12,  1848.  His  father,  Donald  Ramsay,  was  a  native  of 
Isley,  and  his  mother.  Flora  Cameron,  of  Morvin,  in  Argyleshire.  Both 
belonged  to  that  thrifty,  hard-working  class  of  people,  so  common  in 
Scotland.  His  father  served  as  a  ploughman  in  his  early  years,  but  on 
his  settling  in  Glasgow  he  had  to  content  himself  with  an  inferior 
position  in  life,  yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  managed  to  bring  up  his 
little  family  comfortably  on  a  salary  of  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  Mr. 
Ramsay's  earliest  recollections  are  of  Glasgow  Green  and  the  butter- 
cups and  gowans  which  he  was  wont  to  gather  there.  Mingling  with 
these  are  the  recollections  of  the  pleasant  walks  which  his  father  was 
in  the  habit  of  taking  him  on  Sabbath  mornings  along  the  banks  of 
the  river  Clyde,  or  out  to  the  well-known  "  Auld  Ruglin  Brig."  The 
latter  place  seems  to  have  possessed  special  attractions  for  him,  as 
many  years  after  he  had  emigrated  to  this  country  he  made  it  the  sub- 
ject of  his  muse  in  a  poem  which  displays  considerable  feeling,  besides 
giving  us  a  fair  specimen  of  his  descriptive  powers.  We  quote  the 
poem  here,  feeling  assured  that  it  will  prove  interesting  to  such  of  our 
readers  as  hail  from  the  west  of  Scotland: 

AULD  RUGLIN  BRIG. 


The  early  home,  the  hawthorn  tree, 
The  bridge  that  spans  the  river, 

The  green  lanes  where  we  used  lo  be, 
Shall  be  forgotten  never. 


DONALD  RAMSAY.  203 


And  though  I  wander  far  and  wide, 

My  memory  ne'er  shall  scorn 
Auld  Ruglin  Hrig,  that  spans  the  Clyde, 

In  the  land  where  1  was  born. 

Auld  Ruglin  Brig,  whose  buttresses 

Are  each  a  garden  plot; 
The  wonder  of  my  childish  years, 

That  sweet,  delightful  spot. 
The  echo,  in  the  arches  low, 

Oft  made  my  young  heart  bound. 
When  I  have  stood  in  wonderment 

And  listened  to  the  sound. 

Auld  Ruglin  Brig,  where  many  a  night 

I've  stood  and  watched  the  river 
Flow  gently  in  the  calm  moonlight, 

When  scarce  a  leaf  did  quiver; 
And  where  I've  stood  when  winter's  blasts 

Did  rend  the  oak  asunder, 
And  swollen  Hoods  gushed  loud  and  fast 

And  filled  the  arches  under. 

And  where  I've  watched  the  gloamin'  close 

The  long  bright  summer's  day, 
And  doubted  not  that  fairies  dwelt 

On  ("athkin's  bonnie  braes. 
Auld  Ruglin  Brig  and  Cathkin  braes 

And  Clyde's  meandering  stream, 
Ye  shall  be  subject  of  my  lays 

As  ye  are  of  my  dreams. 

The  early  home,  the  hawthorn  tree, 

The  bridge  that  spans  the  river, 
And  the  green  holms  where  we  used  to  be 

Shall  be  forgotten  never. 

Mr.  Ramsay's  school  days  began  in  his  seventh  year  and  terminated 
ere  he  had  reached  the  age  of  ten.  He  confesses  that  he  made  no 
distinguished  record  as  a  scholar.  He  was  not  a  favorite  with  the 
schoolmaster,  and  he  availed  himself  of  every  possible  excuse  that 
presented  itself  to  prevent  his  attending  school.  Wandering  about 
the  outskirts  of  the  city,  stealing  rides  on  canal  boats  and  watching 
the  glass-blowers  or  pottery  men  was  more  congenial  to  him  than  poring 
over  his  lessons.     "And  so,"  he  says,  "  when  I  was  big  enough  to  cam 


i04  SCOTTISH  POETS  tN  AMERICA. 

half-a-crown  a  week,  I  gladly  exchanged  the  school-room  for  the  work- 
shop." He  started  as  a  boy-of-all-work  in  the  establishment  of  Messrs. 
J.  W.  Robertson  &  Co.,  valentine  manufacturers,  and  in  this  way 
became  a  printer. 

His  employment  with  this  firm  lasted  about  seven  years,  during 
which  time  many  changes  had  come  to  him.  Sickness  and  death  had 
visited  his  home  and  carried  oft"  his  father  and  three  of  his  brothers, 
leaving  him  to  take  care  of  his  mother  and  two  younger  brothers.  His 
mother  was  of  a  cheerful  disposition  and  worked  hard  and  nobly  to 
keep  out  of  debt.  She  was  truly  independent,  he  says,  and  would 
have  starved  rather  than  ask  assistance  of  her  friends.  He  had  how- 
ever become  imbued  with  a  desire  for  learning,  and  a  wish  to  improve 
his  condition  in  life.  His  work  had  brought  him  into  contact  with  all 
sorts  of  books,  and  he  had  acquired  an  extensive  knowledge  of  various 
departments  of  literature.  There  were  a  number  of  second-hand 
bookstalls  in  Glasgow,  and  he  became  a  regular  frequenter  of  them. 
It  was  seldom  that  he  had  the  means  to  purchase  such  books  as  he  took 
a  fancy  for,  but  he  sometimes  picked  up  a  cheap  copy  of  Thomson,  or 
Shenstone,  or  Prior,  and  in  this  way  soon  became  possessed  of  a  good 
collection  of  standard  works.  It  was  also  during  this  period  of  his  life 
that  he  began  to  court  the  muses.  "  I  naturally  rhymed  a  little  now 
and  then,"  he  writes,  "and  sometimes  a  funny  epitaph  or  epigram,  or 
a  song  for  an  occasion  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  show  a  talent  for 
rhyming.  We  had  a  weekly  paper  in  Glasgow  called  the  Fenny  Post, 
to  which  1  frequently  sent  a  song  or  short  poem,  and  my  happiest  days 
were  those  in  which  I  waited  in  anticipation  of  seeing  my  lines  in  the 
'  Poet's  Corner.'  I  was  afraid  to  have  my  name  appear,  and  signed 
myself  '  Clutha  '  so  that  my  companions  could  not  tease  me,  and  I 
had  all  the  i)leasure  to  myself."  In  1866  he  went  to  Dublin,  thence 
to  Liverpool,  working  for  some  time  in  each  of  those  cities  at  his  trade. 
In  1868  he  concluded  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  new  world,  and  so  set 
sail  for  New  York.  But  Scotland  never  parted  with  a  truer  or  more 
sorrowful  son  than  she  did  when  he  waved  a  final  adieu  to  her  shores. 
"  I  was  indeed  pained,"  he  writes,  "at  leaving  my  native  land.  My 
dear  mother's  warm  and  last  kiss  was  on  my  lips,  my  two  brothers 
stood  on  the  pier,  and  as  we  slowly  sailed  away  the  words  of  a  song 
I  had  written  some  years  before  in  a  juvenile  way,  for  a  friend  about  to 
cross  the  Atlantic,  came  back  to  me: 


DONALD  RAMSA  Y.  205 


Farewell  sweet  river  Clyde, 

,    Pensive  and  slow 

D<jwii  thy  dear  stream  I  glide 

Muurnful  I  go. 
On  to  the  ocean  wide 

O'er  the  broad  sea, 
O,  thou  sweet  winding  Clyde! 

Farewell  to  tlice. 
Oft  1)11  thy  velvet  banks 

boyhood  and  man 
Thoughtful  I've  wandered 

Or  happy  I've  ran, 
Gathered  the  gowans  bright, 

Careless  and  free; 
O,  thou  sweet  winding  Clyde, 

Farewell  to  thee!" 


After  landing  in  New  York  he  proceeded  to  Boston,  where  he  has 
since  remained,  wiili  the  exception  of  one  year  which  he  spent  in  Min- 
nesota on  account  ot  his  health.  'I'lie  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  Ram- 
say are  numerous  and  of  excellent  quality.  They  are  invariably  pure 
and  elevating,  even  while  depicting  some  humorous  phase  of  life  or 
character.  Besides  showing  a  complete  mastery  over  rhyme  and 
rhythm  they  prove  him  10  be  possessed  of  a  poetic  imagination,  a  true 
love  of  nature,  a  correct  taste,  and  a  tender  and  sympathetic  sense  of 
feeling.  Many  of  his  smaller  compositions  are  truly  pathetic,  both  in 
incident  and  language.     Take  the  following  little  piece  as  a  specimen: 

THE  SHADOWS. 


Green  arc  the  fields  and  fair  the  skies, 
And  bright  is  the  world  to-day; 

But  over  my  home  a  shadow  lies 
And  it  will  not  go  away. 

And  my  heart  is  held  with  a  fearful  dread; 

For  my  love  lies  pale  on  a  weary  bed. 

Over  the  lawn  my  little  boy. 

Chases  a  buttcrtly, 
His  laugh  has  a  ring  of  careless  jcy 

And  happiness  beams  from  his  eye; 
Ah,  me!  it  is  well  that  he  cannot  see 
The  awful  shadow  that  frightens  me. 


2o6  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN'  AMERICA. 

The  doctor  is  gone,  I  have  closed  the  door, 

And  what  were. the  words  he[said  ? 
Alas!  I  have  thought  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  they  weigh  on  my  heart  like  lead. 
And  I  sit.me  down  in, dark  despair 
And  the  awful  shadow  lingers  there. 

Our  author's  introdiiction_to  the  writings  of  Robert  Burns  is  thus 
amusingly  referred  to  by  himself.  He  says:  "  There  was  a  genial  old 
man  named  Gemmell  that  kept  a  small  stationery  shop  on  George 
street  where  the  school  children  used  to  buy  pencils,  etc.,  and  he  had 
a  circulating  library  composed  mostly  of  cheap  editions,  sixpenny  and 
shilling  volumes.  I  had  heard  of  Burns,  but  not  much,  and  when  I 
was  about  twelve  years  old,  one  rainy  night  I  produced  my  penny 
(always  in  advance)  and  was  handed  down  the  wonderful  volume,  I 
ran  with  it  out  into  the  street,  but  could  not  wait  until  I  reached  home, 
I  opened  it  under  the  first  lamp  that  I  came  to,  and  in  a  short  time 
became  so  deeply  interested  in  the  '  Twa  Dogs '  that  the  book  was 
almost  spoiled  by  the  rain."  Since  that  time  he  has  become  the  pos- 
sessor of  many  fine  editions  of  Burns,  and  he  occasionally  makes  a 
leisure  hour  pass  pleasantly  by  composing  a  sonnet  or  a  poem,  either 
on  or  in  connection  with  some  incident  in  the  life  of  the  Ayrshire 
Bard.     A  short  specimen  of  these  delightful  musings  may  be  given: 

THE  DAISY. 


Last  night,  while  holding  converse  with  a  friend, 

A  man  of  rare  intelligence  and  worth, 

He  beckoned  me  aside  and  smiling,  said: 

"  I'll  show  you  something  which,  perhaps,  you  know." 

He  then  produced  a  volume,  pocket-worn, 

And  opening  it,  displayed  between  the  leaves 

A  wee  red-tipped  daisy  culled  afar. 

In  classic  field  in  Scotland.     What  was  it 

That  made  him  prize  this  little  foreign  flower? 

A  hundred  years  ago  the  ploughman  Burns 
Laid  waste  a  little  daisy  in  the  cartli; 
But  there  uprose  from  out  the  poet's  soul, 
A  sympathetic  prayer,  showing  the  bigness 
Of  a  human  heart  that  sympathized 
Even  with  a  modest  daisy  crimson-tipped. 


DONALD  RAMSAY.  207 


And  so  we  hold  the  little  flower  up, 
And  look  at  one  of  God's  wee  instruments 
That  touch  the  cords  of  tenderness  in  man 
And  make  us  feel  that  we  are  mortal  all. 

Mr.  Ramsay  is  exceedingly  partial  towards  his  mother  tongue,  and 
uses  it,  certainly  to  advantage,  on  every  possible  occasion.  Indeed, 
the  majority  of  his  best  poems  are  written  in  the  Doric.  Many  of 
them  are  decidedly  beautiful  in  conception,  and  form  pleasant  read- 
ing, even  while  in  some  cases  a  thread  of  sorrow  is  woven  into  them. 
The  following  piece  will  give  an  idea  of  his  work  in  this  direction: 

JEANNIE    BELL. 

A  SCOTTISH  IDYL. 

Fair  Jeannic  Bell!  a  sweet  braw  lass  was  she, 

As  ever  stept  upon  the  fresh  green  grass, 
A  happy  innocence  sparkled  in  her  e'e. 

An'  her  sweet  voice  nae  birdie's  could  surpass. 

At  early  morning  on  the  dewy  gowan  lee. 

When  scent  o'  hawthorn  filled  the  balmy  air. 
An'  happy  warblers  sang  frae  ilka  tree. 

I  aft  did  sit  and  wait  for  Jcannie  there. 

The  bark  o'  Rover,  tauld  me  o"  her  comin'. 
An'  ower  the  brae,  like  morning  sun  she  cam', 

Wi'  some  sweet  tune  she  felt  a  joy  in  hummin'. 
An'  at  her  feet  a  snaw  white  wee  pet  Iamb. 

I  felt  the  glamour  o'  her  witchin'  glance; 

She  smiled  and  passed,  but  did  not  speak  to  me. 
For  I  was  shy,  and  only  looked  askance, 

Happy  to  meet  her  on  the  golden  lee. 

0,   Thou!  ivJio  thucllcst  beyond  caiih  and  air. 

To  whose  great  la-iV  stibsei~A(nt  are  all  Powers, 
I  thank  Thee,  that  J've  seen  a  form  so  fair! 

So  angel  like,  upon  this  earth  of  ours. 

The  summer  passed,  the  flowers  a'  bloomed  and  died. 

The  blast  o'  winter  shook  the  leafless  tree, 
I  wandered  pensively  by  llowiiig  Clyde,  < 

But  bonnie  Jcannie  1  could'na  see. 


2o8  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

I  longed  to  see  the  sweet  return  o'  spring, 
The  pleasing  sunshine  an'  the  fresh  green  grass, 

Frae  ilka  tree  to  hear  the  birds  a'  sing. 
But  mair  than  a',  to  see  mj-  bonnie  lass. 

My  hopes  were  crushed,  for  soon  the  tidings  spread 

My  Jeannie  faded,  died,  and  was  nae  mair, 
I  could  na  greet,  I  only  bowed  my  head 

An'  turned  awa,  wi'  something  like  despair. 

Wi'  sad,  sad  hearts  they  laid  her  in  the  clay, 

An'  lingered  lang  till  gloamin'  shadows  fell, 
Wi'  lanesome  hearts,  they  hameward  bent  their  way, 

Nae  mair  to  see  their  bonnie  Jeannie  Bell. 

When  a'  were  gane,  I  stood  beside  the  mound, 

Forget  that  kirk)-ard  scene,  I  never  can, 
I  bowed  my  head  in  sorrow  to  the  ground, 

A  truer  tear  ne'er  fell  frae  cheek  o'  man. 

The  songs  of  Scotland  naturally  contain  numerous  charms  for  our 
author  and  he  loves  to  dwell  on  the  grandeur  and  inspiring  qualities 
of  those  renowned  compositions.  In  a  poem  addressed  to  the  late 
Mr.  David  Kennedy  he  says: 

The  auld  Scotch  sangs  I  lo'e  them  weel, 

Sae  tender  and  sae  real,  man, 
They  touch  oor  heart  an'  mak  us  feel 

As  only  Scots  can  feel,  man, 
They  waukin  thocts  o'  ither  days, 

An'  scenes  oor  childhood  saw,  man, 
Again  we  wander  ower  the  braes 

In  Scotland  far  awa',  man. 

Again  by  Clyde's  sweet  banks  sae  green, 

Or  thro'  the  silent  grove,  man, 
At  gloamin',  wi'  some  bonnie  Jean, 

In  memory  we  rove,  man, 
An'  then  their  witty  sparks  o'  fire 

Oor  very  souls  they  raise, man, 
Frae  life's  puir  diggin'  in  the  mire. 

To  sweeter,  brighter  days,  man. 

That  he  understands  the  true  value  and  ini])ortance  of  a  good  lyric 
is  very  evident  from    the   remarks    which    he    makes    in   an    epistle 


DONALD  RAMSA  V.  309 


addressed  to  his  warm  friend  and  brolhcr-poct,  Mr.  Duncan  Mac- 
Grcgor  Crcrar,  on  his  first  reading  the  latter's  verses  entitled  "My 
Hero  True  Frae  Benachie:" 

TO    DUNCAN    MacGREGOR  CRERAR,  POET 


I  saw  a  sang  in  Scottish  dress, 
O'  some  bit  lassie's  sair  distress, 
Sic  wacfu'ness  it  did  express 

It  touched  the  vera  heart  o'  me. 
Quo'  I  wha  wrote  this  bonnie  sang? 
Was't  Stevenson  or  Andrew  Lang? 
Frae  some  true  poet's  heart  it  sprang, 

This  plaintive  Highland  melody. 

My  interest  grew  an'  lookin'  nearer, 
There  stood  the  name  MacGrti^or  Crenir, 
Ah  then!    the  wee  bit  sang  grew  dearer, 

And  it  was  quite  a  joy  to  me. 
An  incident  sac  sweetly  told. 
In  Scottish  verse  o'  classic  mould 
Does  honor  to  our  country  old 

And  to  the  lad  frae  Benachie. 

Oh,  wad  that  pleasant  sangs  an'  rhymes 
Had  mair  acceptance  o'  these  times, 
O'  heartless  trade  and  selfish  crimes. 

An'  social  disability. 
What  future  has  the  millionaire, 
With  a'  his  wark  and  a'  his  care? 
The  writer  o'  a  sang  has  mair 

At  interest  with  posterity. 

Two  short  specimens  of  Mr.  Ramsay's  own  lyrical  productions  will 
be  appreciated  here: 

LOVE'S  WHISPER. 


Somebody  whispered  to  me  yestreen, 

Somebody  whispered  to  me; 
And  my  heart  gaed  a  flutter,  and  tlew  away  clean 

As  somebody  whispered  to  me, 
And  the  rose,  that  1  fand  in  my  tangled  hair, 
Was  a  token  o'  love  I  wccn. 


210  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 

An  airm  gaed  roun'  my  waist  yestreen, 
An  airm  sae  Strang,  an'  true; 

An'  I  laid  my  heid  on  his  breast  yestreen, 
For,  what  could  a  puir  thing  do? 

An'  my  heart  is  his  forever  mair, 

An'  naething  will  come  between. 


BONNIE  MAY  MacALISTER. 


Bonnie  May  MacAlister! 

I  remember  when 

You  were  only  eight  years  old, 

And  I  was  only  ten. 

And,  in  our  childish  rambles, 

How  much  I  thought  of  you, 

While  playing  on  the  banks  o'  Clyde, 

Whaur  red-tipped  gowans  grew. 

A  misty  cloud  hangs  'tween  our  lives, 
For  twenty  years  and  more. 
On  separate  paths,  diverging  wide, 
Along  thro'  life  we've  bore. 
And  you  are  wedded  long  ago; 
But  do  you  think  of  when 
You  were  only  eight  years  old, 
And  I  was  only  ten. 

Do  smiles  of  happiness  still  lurk 
Within  those  eyes  so  rare  ? 
Or  has  the  hard  world's  weary  work 
Strained  them  with  anxious  care  ? 
I  trust  that  you  have  seen  more  joys 
Than  he  who  knew  )'ou  when, 
You  were  only  eight  years  old, 
And  I  was  only  ten. 

Our  atithor  is  senior  partner  in  tlie  Heliotype  Printing  Con)pany, 
and  occupies  the  position  of  manager  and  treasurer.  He  is  a  life 
member  of  the  Scot's  Charitable  Society,  and  is  extensively  and  favor- 
ably known  throughout  Boston  and  its  vicinity.  His  home  is  among 
the  prettiest  of  those  situated  in  the  romantic  little  village  of  Roslin- 
dale,  and  his  muse  frccjuenily  becomes  enraptured  with  the  quiet  place 
and  its  surroundings : 


DONALD  RAMSAY.  2il 


When  shadows  creep  across  the  square, 

And  slanting  rays  of  evening  sun 
Light  up  my  walls  with  sudden  glare, 

My  day's  toil  in  the  city's  done. 
My  pen  is  wiped,  my  books  are  closed, 

And  all  the  cares  that  they  entail 
Are  laid  aside,  while  I  have  dosed 
A  half  hour's  ride  to  Roslindale. 
The  quiet  haunts  of  Roslindale, 
The  green  hillsides  of  Roslindale, 
The  shady  nook,  the  murmuring  brook, 
The  pleasing  look  of  Roslindale, 

Mr.  Ramsay  was  married  in  1872  to  Miss  Maggie  Rust,  daughter  of 
William  Rust,  Escj.,  of  Roxbury,  Mass.  In  1879,  his  Maggie  died,  leav- 
ing two  boys — Willie  and  Allen — who  still  survive.  It  was  during  her 
sickness  that  the  poem,  "  The  Shadows,"  was  written.  In  1883,  he  was 
again  married  to  Miss  Lillian  Whitefield,  daughter  of  Edwin  White- 
field,  Esq.,  artist  and  author.  She  is  an  accomplished  and  delightful 
lady  of  high  education  and  culture.  They  have  been  blessed  with 
one  child,  a  bright  little  girl,  now  four  years  of  age,  named  Flora,  who, 
we  need  hardly  assure  our  readers,  is  an  ever-increasing  joy  and 
delight  to  her  estimable  parents. 

In  concluding  our  sketch  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  introduce  to 
our  readers  an  acrostic  which  Mr.  Ramsay  worked  out  of  his  wife's 

name: 

Love  found  rne  in  a  dreary  waste, 
In  which  was  nothing  cheering. 
Love  led  me  to  a  maiden  chaste, 
Listless  I  followed  fearing. 
In  her  I  found  a  cheerful  ray, 
And  night  changed  to  a  sunny  day, 
No  cloud  at  all  appearing. 


DR.    JOHN    MASSIE. 

I  know  thee  not — I  never  heard  thy  voice; 

Yet,  could  I  choose  a  friend  from  all  mankind, 
Thy  spirit  high  should  be  my  spirit's  choice. 

Thy  heart  should  guide  my  heart,  thy  mind  my  mind. 

Dr.  John  Massie,  Colborne,  Ontario,  has  long  since  established  an 
enviable  reputation  for  himself  as  the  author  of  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  poems  of  a  superior  order  of  merit.  He  is  spoken  of  by  one 
of  his  friends  as  a  genial,  generous,  cultivated  gentleman,  learned  and 
honorable  in  all  his  dealings  with  his  fellow-men.  His  writings  prove 
him  to  be  a  perfect  master  of  Doric  speech,  and,  while  many  of  his 
finest  and  best-known  poems  are  cast  in  that  mould,  there  are  also 
those  among  his  English  productions  which  display  both  talent  and 
skill  and  entitle  him  to  a  foremost  position  among  his  brother  bards. 
His  style  is  vigorous,  terse  and  attractive  at  all  times,  and  his  verse  is 
generally  musical  and  rich  in  true  touches  of  nature.  Many  excep- 
tionally fine  thoughts  are  woven  into  his  earlier  poems,  although,  on 
the  whole,  his  latter  productions  are  the  best.  In  connection  with 
this  it  might  be  stated  that  his  "Jubilee  Poem,"  consisting  of  twenty- 
five  stanzas,  and  published  last  year,  was  widely  copied  by  the  Cana- 
dian and  British  press  and  received  the  indorsement  of  many  eminent 
critics  as  being  "  the  finest  set  of  verses  which  appeared  on  this  illus- 
trious occasion."     Two  stanzas  will  give  a  general  idea  of  the  poem: 

One  wish,  one  thought  intense,  one  impulse  strong, 

Hatii  governed  all  thy  long,  eventful  reign; 
Imbued  thy  days  of  sadness  and  of  song 

With  sweetest  sympathy  for  all  thy  train; 

And  strengthened  thy  strong  heart  and  nerved  thy  brain 
To  do  the  work  an  empire  lays  on  thee; 

Tis  love  for  thine  own  people  doth  sustain 
The  pillars  of  thy  throne.     Love  makes  them  free. 
And  guides  thy  ship  of  state  o'er  Time's  tempestuous  sea. 


t>R.  JOHN  MASSIE.  113 


And  as  a  face  smile  lit,  wakes  up  a  smile, 

Or  bright,  contagious  laughter  glads  the  eye, 
Or  joy  gets  joy,  or  cheerfulness,  like  oil. 

Lays  all  the  troubled  waters,  making  dry 

The  cheek  tear  dewed;  or  skylark  soaring  high 
Lifts  up  man's  heart,  impelling  him  to  sing; 

We  watch  the  eagle's  tlight  and  wish  to  Hy, 
And  feel  within,  the  spirit's  quivering  wing; 
So  thy  kind  heart,  love  lit,  lights  every  living  tiling. 

Dr.  Massie  was  born  in  Frazerburgh,  Aberdeenshire,  Scotland,  on 
the  eighth  of  April,  1833.  llis  father's  name  was  also  John,  and  his 
mother  was  Isabel  Falconer,  a  native  of  Stnchen.  The  family  emi- 
grated to  Canada  and  settled  m  Kingston  just  as  our  author  was  enter- 
ing upon  his  fourth  birthday.  A  few  years  later  they  went  out  into 
the  wilderness  of  Canadian  woods,  settling  on  a  "  bush  farm  "  in  the 
then  new  township  of  Seymour,  situated  about  twenty-five  miles 
northwest  from  Belleville,  liut  previous  to  this  there  were  trouble- 
some times  in  the  province.  The  rebellion  of  1837  broke  out  and 
Mr.  Massie,  the  poet's  father,  who  removed  to  Belleville  in  the  autumn 
of  1837,  where  he  remained  for  one  year  and  nine  months,  was  the 
first  man  to  enlist  in  the  militia  at  Belleville  to  help  maintain  law  and 
order.  When  all  was  (juiet  again  and  peace  brooded  over  the  land 
he  returned  to  Kingston  and  devoted  much  of  his  spare  time  in  aiding 
those  who  were  anxious  to  learn  vocal  music.  Among  his  more  jirom- 
inent  pupils  was  the  Hon.  Oliver  Mowat,  Premier  of  Ontario.  On 
his  leaving  for  his  wild  wood  farm  in  the  new  settlement  he  was  the 
recipient  of  many  gratifying  testimonials  from  his  pupils  and  others. 
Our  author  at  this  time  was  about  nine  years  of  age,  and  soon  had 
ample  experience  of  tlie  life  of  a  Canadian  pioneer  in  all  its  phases. 

''  The  country  was  so  wild,"  he  writes,  '*  and  roads  so  few  that  we 
had  to  follow  a  'blaze,'  /'.  ^.,  a  mark  made  on  the  trees,  in  order  to 
reach  the  locality  of  our  future  home."  Here,  however,  he  gained  that 
knowledge  of  the  lives  of  the  brave,  and  too  often  neglected,  women 
who  cheerfully  accompany  tiieir  husbands  into  the  wilds  of  the  forests 
in  a  noble  effort  to  secure  independence  and  a  home.  Such  women 
were  no  doubt  in  his  thoughts — perhaps  his  own  mother,  who  was  a 
lovable,  gentle,  devoted  woman  of  quiet  patient  industry  and  remark- 
ably strong  common  sense — when  years  afterwards  in  one  of  his 
poems  he  wrote  the  following  truthful  lines; 


2f4  SCOTTISH  POETS  IJV  AMERICA. 

The  record  of  the  buried  lives 
Of  helpful,  hopeful,  patient  wives; 
Who  thoughtful  still  of  every  need 
Of  every  creature's  wants  took  heed, 
With  cheerful  true  self-abnegation, 
Content  with  their  laborious  station, 
Heroic  mothers  of  a  nation. 

Dr.  Massie  remained  with  his  parents  until  his  twenty-sixth  year, 
when  he  went  to  the  village  of  Castleton  as  teacher  of  the  public 
school.  His  own  education  had  been  acquired  by  what  he  terms 
odds  and  ends,  after  leaving  Kingston.  He  had  however  absorbed 
knowledge  from  books,  periodicals,  newspapers,  etc.  When  other  lads 
were  enjoying  themselves  in  the  usual  youthful  pleasures  and  games 
he  was  poring  over  Burns.  Scott,  Campbell,  Cowley,  Milton,  Shaks- 
peare,  Moore,  etc.,  and  storing  his  mind  with  his  native  country's  his- 
tory and  song.  ''  Robertson's  History  of  Scotland,"  "  Rollins'  An- 
cient History,"  other  histories  and  different  works  as  he  could  obtain 
them,  were  all  carefully  read  and  studied  over,  but  above  all  he  loved 
Scotland's  Bard — her  Burns — and  among  both  his  early  and  later  pro- 
ductions are  several  very  able  and  readable  pieces  on  the  subject  of 
his  favorite  poet: 

Praise  to  the  Bard,  whose  mighty  hand 
Has  placed  our  loved,  our  native  land. 

On  fame's  celestial  height. 
To  be  through  time's  most  distant  page 
For  every  dim  succeeding  age 

A  blazing  beacon  light. 

Who  knits  all  human  hearts  as  one 
And  charms  all  lands  beneath  the  sun 

With  music  from  above; 
And  all  our  minds  with  wisdom  stored, 
And  bound  us  with  a  golden  cord 

Of  sympathy  and  love. 

Who  taught  us  independence  true 

And  rung  the  changes  through  and  through 

His  own  immortal  rhymes; 
And  gathers  as  of  kindred  blood, 
In  one  fraternal  brotherhood 

All  peoples  of  all  climes. 


DR.  JOHN  MASSIE.  215 


Who  taught  the  lords  of  lofty  domes 
That  worth  may  dwell  in  lowly  homes 

And  noble  patriot  pride, 
And  points  the  preat  Creator's  plan 
Till  man's  humanity  to  man 

Shall  stem  oppression's  tide. 

Shall  drain  the  springs  of  sorrow  dry, 
And  wipe  the  tear  from  every  eye, 

And  raise  the  drooping  soul; 
And  all  the  brotherhood  of  man 
Shall  bow  to  God's  and  nature's  plan 

In  one  eternal  whole. 

In  the  autumn  of  1858  our  author  attended  an  examination  of 
teachers  at  the  High  School  of  Colhorne  and  succeeded  in  securing  a 
second-class  county  certificate,  after  which  he  taught  school  for  a  year 
very  successfully,  (juite  a  number  of  advance  pupils  attending  his 
classes.  The  next  year,  however,  owing  to  frequent  and  severe  head- 
aches, he  left  teaching  and  returned  home  to  the  old  farm,  where  he 
spent  a  year  working,  studying,  and  courting  the  muses.  And  this 
period  we  may  say  ended  his  youthful  career  or  labors  as  a  poet,  for 
after  teaching  another  year  he  began  the  study  of  medicine,  and  grad- 
uated in  March,  1S65,  at  Queen's  University,  Kingston,  with  great 
credit. 

His  college  vacations  produced  a  few  stray  |)icces,  but  his  time  was 
now  too  much  occujjied  with  the  actualities,  trials  and  responsibilities 
of  existence  to  allow  even  an  api)roach  to  the  state  of  mind  and  feel- 
ing which  finds  vent  in  poetic  thought  and  expression;  and  for  a  period 
extending  over  many  years  thereafter  he  composed  not  a  solitary  line 
of  poetry.  Indeed  it  is  only  within  the  last  few  years  that  he  has 
strung  anew  his  old  and  long  neglected  harp,  which  vibrates  now  in 
mellowed  and  softer,  yet  richer  tones.  A  number  of  small  poems, 
odes,  songs,  addresses  and  fragmentary  pieces  have  appeared  in  rapid 
succession  from  his  pen  of  late,  and  so  hearty  has  been  the  reception 
accorded  to  these  that  he  is  now  seriously  contemj^lating  the  publica- 
tion of  a  selection  from  his  wrilinj.s  in  book  form  at  an  early  date. 
They  are  certainly  all  worthy  of  the  attention  which  has  been 
bestowed  upon  them.  Take  the  following  piece  as  a  specimen  of  the 
peculiar  subjects  on  which  liis  muse  sometimes  alights,  and  the  simple 
but  expressive  manner  in  which  he  places  his  thoughts  before  us: 


2i6  SCOTTISH  POETS  IN  AMERICA. 


ODE  TO  THE  OWL. 


Hoot  awa  houlet  alane  on  the  tree 
Hout-awa  bird!  Are  )'Ou  hooting  at  me? — 
Or  is  it  a  change  in  the  weather  you  bring, 
Or  do  you  rejoice  in  the  birth  o'  the  spring. 
Or  wailing  the  past  sadly  mourn  o'er  thy  lot 
Till  the  depths  o'  the  forest  re-echo  thy  note  ? 

When  the  music  of  birds  and  the  humming  of  bees 
Are  hushed  on  the  breast  of  the  evening  breeze; 
When  nature  is  laid  on  the  lap  of  repose. 
And  harmony  reigns  in  the  bosom  of  foes; 
When  the  world  is  asleep  and  the  last  ray  of  light 
Is  swept  from  the  earth  by  the  besom  of  night, 
Thou  art  seen  on  the  wing  (though  we  cannot  well  see, 
For  thy  daylight  is  darkness,  ours  darkness  to  thee). 
Thou  art  seen  on  the  wing,  by  the  pale  moonlight, 
To  flit  like  a  ghost  on  the  shadow  of  night; 
Or,  perched  on  a  tree,  art  heard  nightly  to  croon 
Thy  sorrowful  tale  to  the  wandering^moon. 

Oh,  child  of  the  night!  cease  to  echo  along 
The  mournful  "  to-whoo  "  of  thy  midnight  song; 
Or  the  sprites  of  the  night  will  assemble  to  hear, 
And  the  elves  of  the  wood  will  be  caught  in  a  tear. 
Dost  thou  mourn  in  sad  numbers  a  lover's  disdain, 
And  pour  out  thy  passion  in  amorous  stiain? 
Ah!  surely  thy  notes  are  the  language  of  care, 
Commingled  with  tenderness,  love  and  despair! 

Mayhap  the  sole  friend  of  thy  bosom  hath  fled 
And  left  thee  to  mourn  o'er  the  bones  of  the  dead; 
Or  the  feathery  brood  that  so  often  were  prest 
With  a  motherly  tenderness  clo'^e  to  thy  breast. 
Have  fled  thee  ungrateful  and  left  thee  to][mourn 
O'er  thy  woes  and  thy  sorrows  alone  and  forlorn. 

Hoot  awa  houlet — thy  song  on  the  tree, 
Is  woe  to  my  soul,  and  is  tears  to  my  e'e, 
For  my  lot  may  be  dark,  and  like  thee  I  may  mourn, 
O'er  the  joys  of  the  past  that  can  never  return; 
Forsaken  by  friends  and  forgotton  by  foes, 
I  may  sink  in  the  arms  of  unconcious  repose; 
May  read  the  last  lesson_of  life's  rugged  page, 
With  no  one  to  soothe  in  the  sorrow  of  age. 


DR.  JOHN  MA  SSI E.  217 


Oil,  child  of  tlie  night,  on  thy  sentinel  tree; 
\VI13'  not  take  a  lesson  of  patience  from  thee! 
Why  pine  o'er  the  blights  of  ephemeral  clay! 
Why  weep  o'er  the  transient  woes  of  a  day! 
For  the'  dark  be  my  youth  yet  my  end  may  be  calm, 
And  the  evening  of  life  bathe  my  sorrows  in  balm, 
And  the  spirit  long  pent  in  its  casket  of  clay, 
Spread  its  pinions  aloft,  and  go  smiling  away. 


"  Wedded  Love,"  "  On  the  Visit  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  Canada 
in  i860"  (one  hundred  and  eighty  lines),  "The  Old  Maid's  Com- 
plaint" and  the  epistle  to  Kingston's  bard  (Mr.  Evan  MacColl)  are 
excellent  poems  on  their  several  subjects,  and  display  true  poetic 
insi)iraiion  in  their  composition.  Nor  can  we  omit  to  refer  in  the 
very  higlicst  terms  to  the  Doctor's  numerous  lyrical  pieces.  These 
include  "The  Willow  Tree,"  "Aggie's  Tryst,"  "Will  ye  Gang  to  the 
Highland  Hills,"  "Jenny's  Resolve,"  "Annie's  Awa,"  etc.  Had  he 
written  nothing  else,  these  alone  would  have  entitled  him  to  a  jjrom- 
inent  place  among  living  Scottish  poets.  We  (juote  the  last-named 
piece  to  show  how  eminently  qualified  he  is  for  this  style  of  compo- 
sition: 

ANNIE'S  AWA. 


There's  wae  hearts  for  Annie;  but  less  that  she's  gane, 
Than  just  lluu  wc  never  may  see  her  again; 
Frae  the  luinie  o'  her  childhood,  kind  neighbors  and  a'. 
And  the  leal  hearts  that  lo'ed  her,  she's  far,  far  awa': 

Oh!  Annie's  awa',  kind  Annie's  awa'; 

We'll  ne'er  see  anither  like  Annie  awa*. 

The  lentless  wee  lammies  now  toyte  o'er  the  lea, 
Wi'  a  waesome-likc  face,  and  a  pityfu'  e'e; 
E'en  Collie  seems  lost-like,  "  his  back's  to  the  wa'," 
Tlicy've  a'  lost  a  frien'  in  young  .-Vnnie  awa'; 

Sweet  Annie  awa',  kind  Annie  awa'; 

We'll  ne'er  see  anither  like  Annie  awa'. 

The  poor  little  birdies,  sae  wont  to  be  gay, 
Now  sit  'mang  the  branches,  a'  sangless  and  wae; 
Nae  mair  their  saft  warblings  arc  heard  i'  the  shaw, 
Their  wee  hearts  are  burstin'  for  Annie  awa": 

Young  Annie  awa',  kind  Annie  awa'; 

We'll  ne'er  see  anither  like  Annie  awa'. 


2i8  SCOTTISH  POETS  IK  AMERICA. 

At  kirk,  and  at  bridals,  nae  mair  can  we  see 
The  light  and  the  love  o'  her  bonnie  black  e'e 
But  the  tear  ma}-  be  seen,  o'  hearts  broken  in  twa, 
And  the  calm  o'  deep  sorrow  for  Annie  awa'. 

Young  Annie  awa',  kind  Annie  awa'; 

We'll  ne'er  see  anither  like  Annie  awa'. 

Ah!  life's  bl)-thest  morning  may  darken  ere  noon, 
And  the  sun  o'  it's  simmer  gang  wearily  doon; 
The  fairest  o'  flow'rets  be  mantled  in  snaw; 
O!  Fortune!  deal  kindly  wi'  Annie  awa": 

Young  Annie  awa',  kind  Annie  awa'; 

We'll  ne'er  see  anither  like  Annie  awa', 

In  April,  1866,  our  poet  Doctor  was  united  in  marriage  to  Miss 
Ada  J.  Marvyn,  niece  and  adopted  daughter  of  the  Rev.  James 
Hughes  and  wife,  of  Colborne.  She  is  a  woman  of  good  education 
and  fine  literary  ability.  One  daughter,  now  seventeen,  and  one  son, 
now  twelve  years  of  age,  remain  to  them  out  of  a  family  of  five.  The 
daughter,  Edith  Falconer  Massie,  seems  to  inherit  her  parents'  literary 
talents,  as  she  was  awarded  the  first  prize  in  1S87  for  an  original 
work  of  fiction  offered  by  the  proprietor  of  the  Montreal  Witness. 
And  so  we  leave  our  author  happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  comfortable 
home  and  a  large  circle  of  friends.  He  is  now  in  possession  of  that 
peace  and  leisure  required  for  the  exercising  of  his  poetic  gifts,  and 
we  look  forward  with  sincere  pleasure  to  the  publication  of  a  collection 
of  his  poems  in  book  form.  He  certainly  deserves  to  be  successful 
in  such  an  undertaking,  and  we  have  no  hesitancy  in  predicting  a 
favorable  reception  of  his  volume  at  the  hands  of  the  public  and  the 
press. 


NOW  HEADY,  PRICE  S2.50. 

IN  ONE  LARGE  8vo.  VOLUME,  400  PAGES,  CLOTH,  GILT  TOP. 

CELEBRATF.D 

SONGS  OP  SCOTLAND, 

FROM  KIiXG  JAMES    V  to  HENRY  SCOTT  RIDDELL, 

Edited  with  Memoirs.  Notes,  Glossary  and  an  Index. 

— i:v— 

JOHN    D.  ROSS, 

A  uthor  of  ^'■Scottish  Poets  In  A  inerica." 


EXTRACTS  FROM   PRESS   NOTICES,  ETC. 


*  ♦  It  is  an  excellent  and  very  complete  collection,  printed  In  larce  and  \eg\\j\e 
type.    The  notes  and  biographical  ineinorunda  are  valuable.— J\Vu'  Ymi,  Sun. 

*  *  It  is  a  larj-'e  and  liaiidsomely  iMHind  Ijook  of  about  400  patr<'s  and  Is  dedicated 
tf»  General  (Irant,  with  Ills  pcrnilssion  jriven  in  188-t.  Every  lover  of  Scotch  aontcs,  and 
tills  comprises  every  song-lover,  should  have  a  copy  of  this  work.— JN'eir  York  Sutulnu 

New. 

*  *  This  collection  Includes  the  best  songs  from  the  time  of  James  V  to  Henry 
Scott  Kiddell— about  four  hiiniired  double-column  pages.  It  Is  a  very  good  and 
valuable  selection,  and  if  it  has  any  faults  they  are  not  those  of  omission.— Jif/idii 
JJauthiiiKi  ill  the  A'(  ic  I'o/A  iro/Zi/. 

*  ♦  There  are  something  like  TOO  songs  In  the  collection  and  it  is  needles*  to  ^ay 
that  such  a  gathering  which  includes  some  of  the  latest  song  innker-;  of  the  Scots 
country  is  calculated  to  rouse  an  enthuslam  equal  to  that  In^iilred  by  the  gathering  of 
the  Clans.  An  important  and  novel  feature  i-^  the  giving  of  a  history  of  nearly  everv 
song  that  is  included.  A  table  of  Orst  lines  and  a  glossary  are  appended.— -Vi  ir  Yoii; 
Star. 


In  adding  anotlier  to  the  long  list  of  collections  of  Scottish  B<mKs,  which  range 
from  the  voluniinous  publications  of  ('hatnbers,  Cunningham,  Scott.  liamsay,  etc.,  to 
the  little  liooU  in  the  (Jolden  Treasury,  Mr.  Uoss  has  apparently  de>lred  to  bring 
together  the  largest  possible  numlter  of  pieces  in  a  cheap  form.  •  •  His  book  Is  to  be 
praised  for  its  comprehensiveness,  its  good  Index,  and  the  general  adequacy  of  the 
historical  and  biographical  notices.— A'eu)  York  Triliuitf. 


♦  *  It  extends  to  about  400  large  pages  and  embraces  all,  or  nearly  all,  of  the 
firlncipai  pieces  for  which  Scotland  Is  so  famous.  There  are  copious  notes  explanatory 
f)f  the  songs  and  descriptive  of  the  lives  of  the  authors.  The  whole  forms  a  conveident 
and  excellent  collection  of  Scottish  songs.— /{/•i"i/,7j/;(  Eaoh'. 

"▼  *  *  Mr.  Uoss'  collection  is  a  good  one  for  popular  reading,  ami  his  Memoirs  and 
Notes,  as  far  as  we  have  been  able  to  examine  them,  leave  but  little  to  be  desired. — 
Mail  and  Express. 


'  •  There  is  room  for  Mr.  Ross'  book  in  America  at  least;  for  he  has  pat  into  one 
well  printed  book,  with  sufficient  explanatory  memoirs  and  notes,  the  bulk  of  what 
nils  four  volumes  of  Allen  Cunningham's  standard  collection  and  two  vols  by  Prof 
Aytoun.  The  book  is  printed  in  double  column  pages,  in  large,  clear  type,  is  bound  in 
dark  green  cloth,  and  is  dedicated  to  General  Grant.  *  *  Here  are  all  the  old  familiar 
favorites  that  have  traveled  round  the  world  and  been  sung  in  peasants'  cottages  and 
'*!"'?L^5i"'*^'..'i!^''*l^i"^  rooms  half  a  century  and  more.  Here,  also,  are  those  of  the  most 
"'      "  "  """^       '  '  ""  L'he 


inferred,  noticeably  complete.— BrnoMyn  Citizen. 


*  *  It  contains  upwards  of  seven  hundred  of  the  most  famous  Scottish  Song^ 
written  from  the  time  of  James  V  to  the  present,  a  period  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
years.  No  song  of  any  popularity  has  been  omitted,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  so  fine  a 
collection  of  t.ue  lyric  poetry  is  nowhere  else  to  be  found.  The  lyrics  of  Scotland 
stand  alone  in  iheir  beauty,  simplicity  and  true  poetic  expression.  The  printer,  artist 
and  binder  have  united  to  make  this  volume  a  gem.  In  their  several  departments  tiiey 
have  done  weW.^Fralerhtnn  (N.  B.)  Capital. 

To  Mr.  John  D.  Ross,  the  compiler  of  "  Celebrated  .-^ongs  of  Scotland,"  edited  with 
memoirs  and  notes,  and  published  in  a  handsome  volume  of  nearly  four  hundred  pages 
the  American  people  owe  a  considerable  debt  of  gratitude.  He  has  culled,  like  a  true 
editor,  the  choicest  flowers  from  the  poetic  fields  of  four  centuries.  ♦  ♦  Mr.  Ross 
prefaces  the  majority  of  his  selections  with  admirable  little  sketches  of  their  authors 
or  remarks  upon  the  subject  matter  of  their  verse.  The  book  should  have  a  place  in 
the  library  of  every  American  lover  of  poetry  of  the  heart.  Whittier  loves  it,  and 
General  Grant  has  stamped  it  with  his  se&l.—Sundatj  Jnurnal  {New  York). 

^        „     ^  New  York,  Jan.  1, 1887. 

Dear  Mr.  Ross : 

You  have  certainly  conferred  on  me  one  of  the  choice  pleasures  of  my  life  in  my 
possession  of  your  book.  Celebrated  Songs  of  Scotland.  You  have  met  my  wisn  and 
pursuit  of  many  years,  in  this  masterly  collection  and  compilation,  for  now  I  have  in 
one  volume  the  rhymes,  songs  and  sentiments  that  have  exalted  Scotland  to  the 
world's  love.  To  me  she  has  been  from  boyhood  the  home  of  song  and  heroism,  and 
your  book  comes  to  me  as  a  concentrated  delight,  and  1  can  sincerely  congratulate  you 
on  a  success  that  does  you  credit  as  a  worthy  "  Son  of  Scotland." 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

DANiEL  "EDWARD   RFAN. 

FROM    JOHN   C.   WHITHER. 

Oak' Knoll,  Danvers,  Mass., 

2d  Mo.  28, 1887. 
John  D.  Rdss,  Esq., 

Dear  Friend  :— Thy  Admiraljle  Collection  of  the  Songs  of  Scotland  came  to  Ames- 
bury  in  my  absence.  I  have  now  had  an  opportunity  to  fully  examine  it,  and  do  not 
hesitate  to  pronounce  it  the  best  and  most  complete  book  of  the  kind  which  has  yet 
been  published.  It  contains  all  the  well-known  songs  which  are  to  be  found  in  other 
collections,  and  introduces  us  to  song  writers  whose  names  had  never  reached  us 
before. 

I  have  spent  many  happy  hours  over  it,  and  it  has  deepened  the  admiration  and 
love  which  I  have  ever  felt  for  the  Scottish  singers.  Rut  for  illness  I  should  have 
sooner  expressed  the  satisfaction  which  thy  work  has  given  me. 

I  am,  very  truly,  thy  friend, 

JOHN  G.   WHITTIER. 


FROM   JAMES    KENNEDY. 


WILLIAM    PAGAN,  Jr.,  &  SON,  Publishers, 
352  Pearl  Street, 

NEW  YORK  CITY. 

C^^  Sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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Ross   - 
Scottish 
poets   In 

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